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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104507">'Tis the Fucking Season</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequibblah/pseuds/thequibblah'>thequibblah</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Fluff with a side of angst, Holidays, One(s) That Got Away, Sort of a Dash &amp; Lily AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:54:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequibblah/pseuds/thequibblah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six-year absences. Yearly photograph burnings (figuratively). Low-cut tops. Two nosebleeds. Little red notebooks. The Past, with a capital P. The desire to pour your heart out to strangers (maybe pathologically). The desire to do unspeakably bad things to one James Potter. These are the ingredients that make up Lily Evans's holiday season.</p><p>Shelby the cabbie is in for a fucking ride.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Potter/Lily Evans Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Audrey Lang Fucking Syne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Her friends exchange glances.</p><p>“Yeah, <i>that</i> was the actual worst idea she’s ever had,” says Mary. Lily can’t even disagree.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>formed through various tumblr prompts, here is 'tis the fucking season! thank you to <b>keepingupwithpotters</b>, <b>quitehazy</b>, the two spin the bottle anons, and the dash &amp; lily anon for your suggestions. hopefully what i've come up with is fun for you all, and everyone else who reads &lt;3</p><p><b>music</b> for this chapter is: it's the most wonderful time of the year (andy williams); i hate everybody (halsey); don't let a good girl down (thelma plum); oh god (orla gartland); funny face (fred astaire); merry christmas, kiss my ass (all time low)</p><p>section break icons come from flaticon. leave me a kudo/comment if you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 26, 2019</h4><p>It’s late. Greasy plates lie empty on the coffee table, and a cardboard box sits open beside it. Lily, Mary, and Dorcas pass around napkins, wiping pizza crumbs from their fingers, and stare into the box in the manner of Pandora peering at the world’s evils.</p><p>“We’re going to regret this,” Dorcas whispers.</p><p>“We’re all going to regret this, but Lily most of all,” says Mary. She reaches for a bottle amidst the three that are clustered on the table behind her, and takes a sip. “Oh, vile.”</p><p>“Give it here,” says Lily grimly. </p><p>Mary hands her the bottle and she takes a sip. It really is godawful, some expensive wine courtesy of one of Mary’s snobby relatives. It’s possible that her taste is so lowbrow she can’t even appreciate it.</p><p>But her friends are right. She will need fortification for what’s to come. </p><p>Lily takes an extra sip for good measure and fights her gag reflex. She reaches into the box.</p><p>“I just want it known, before we go any further, that this is a really unhealthy coping mechanism,” says Dorcas quickly. “It’s the worst idea you’ve ever had.”</p><p>“Not the worst, I don’t think,” says Mary.</p><p><em> “Thanks,” </em> Lily says sarcastically. She reaches in with only a beat of hesitation, and pulls out a photo. “Oh, God.”</p><p>Mary and Dorcas crane closer. </p><p>“We were still wearing Uggs,” marvels Dorcas. “Didn’t we get over that by Year Ten?”</p><p>“Evidently not,” Lily says. The words <em> Year Ten </em> ring in her mind. She knows when the box is from, after all; it’s got dates written on the outside. Last Christmas she did Year Nine. She’s known this was coming. But that doesn’t make it easy.</p><p>“Maybe I can do Year Eleven instead.” Yes, that would be so much simpler. So much less <em> embarrassing— </em></p><p>“Or you could just not do it,” says Mary. “Normal people don’t excise a year of their past every time they have a bad interaction with their— you know.”</p><p>“This isn’t about <em> her,” </em> says Lily, putting down the photo to fix Mary with a pointed stare. “Really, it isn’t.”</p><p>“Is too,” her mates say in unison.</p><p>“It is <em> not,” </em> Lily says firmly. </p><p>She gropes for the binder buried under the top layer of Year Ten detritus. Pushing the box aside, she drops the binder — massive, overflowing with creased notes, hefty enough to make her arms tremble — onto the coffee table with an almighty thump. It echoes through the quiet sitting room. Lily has the grace to wince.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, break the coffee table,” Dorcas says, “we’ll chuck that out too.”</p><p>“Funny,” says Lily, scooting closer to the table. She flips the binder open and finds another picture of the three of them, once again conspicuously in Uggs. </p><p>Dorcas laughs loudly, taking a swig out of one of the other bottles. “We must’ve sweated right through them.”</p><p>“I certainly did,” says Lily. “Because—”</p><p>“—your forehead’s all shiny,” Mary finishes, grinning.</p><p>“It’s not my fault I get sweaty,” Lily grumps. “Give it here, that’s going in the throw pile.”</p><p>“Should there be a keep pile for Year Ten memorabilia?” says Dorcas.</p><p>“I thought you were the one who was anti-Marie Kondo here.”</p><p>“Only wondering aloud, Lily.”</p><p>She searches through report cards and exam papers, wincing at her painstaking cursive. The very sight of the mock exams and essays sends a phantom twinge through her right hand. On second thought, maybe Dorcas is right. Year Ten was a particularly bad time in her life, and not just because of questionable footwear choices. </p><p>But that’s the point of these yearly purges. It’s a time to get rid of the old, depressing, and embarrassing, and Lily can emerge into the new year like a freshly-plucked chicken: featherless, smooth and rubbery, and ready for basting.</p><p>OK, maybe that simile falls apart upon further examination.</p><p>“Year Ten play alert.” Dorcas points at a photo, flapping her hand more insistently when Lily doesn’t stop.</p><p>“Not reliving <em> Twelfth Night, </em> please.” </p><p>“I made a great Olivia,” Mary says, smiling to herself.</p><p>“You did at that. Look at this dress!” Dorcas snags the photo and tosses it to Mary; it flutters to the rug halfway between them. </p><p>“Do you want to keep that photo?” asks Lily.</p><p>“Yeah, on our fridge.” Mary gets up to go to the kitchen.</p><p>“Really, Lily,” Dorcas says, “what are you trying to achieve here?”</p><p>She’s been through October, November — the play was December. Soon it will be Christmas, 2013. In the binder, anyway. And then when she’s finished it will never be Christmas, 2013, in her mind again, and Christmas, 2019, will be further in the rearview mirror, something to be purged at a later date.</p><p>“Catharsis,” Lily says decisively. “I am reaching for catharsis.”</p><p>Dorcas has on that friendly look of concern-slash-pity. “Love, catharsis is at home. Not in a box from, like, six years ago.” </p><p>Lily swallows against the sudden lump in her throat. No, if there’s one thing she’s learned this Christmas — really, one thing she ought to have learned several years before — it’s that catharsis <em> isn’t </em> at home. Christmas fucking sucks. She has to make her own damn go of it.</p><p>So she pulls out a chunk of the December items — notes, photos, <em> more </em> exam papers, <em> why </em> has she kept those? — and slides them across the table towards Dorcas. </p><p>“Here, you can sort through these. Shout if you find something interesting.”</p><p>Dorcas sighs patiently, but she sits up and reaches for the first note.  “I can’t even read these. Why did we write our notes in code?” </p><p>“So boys wouldn’t read them,” Lily replies absently. That was always a Mary concern, primarily, but she and Dorcas had no desire to have their secret notes pawed through by idiot boys regardless. “That was the year everyone was passing notes round, remember? You weren’t cool unless you managed to get a message to your friend across the classroom without a teacher seeing.”</p><p>At least it seems like Dorcas has the bulk of the December memorabilia. Lily’s got the stack of birthday cards, which puts her safely in late January. There’s one with a Disney princess on it from her great-aunt; she cringes. A glittery, hand-made one from Dorcas. A note on thick, cream-coloured stationery from Mary, who’d spent a year pretending to be classy. </p><p>There’s a card from the shop with a riot of carnations — her birth flower — on them, courtesy of her parents. She opens it with a small smile. Her parents had decided to separate by then, but they’d collaborated on the message in the card. They are far happier divorced, minor complications aside, but Lily still feels an old wash of warmth to think of how their family had once been.</p><p>There are only two names on the card. Lily winces preemptively, knowing what will be next in the stack. </p><p>Petunia has used the same stationery since she left home — some rot about having a <em> brand. </em> Why you’d need a brand for your greeting cards, Lily has no idea. They’re all pale pink, with a gold accent thing on the top, her initials printed below… </p><p><em> She’ll need to order a replacement when she gets married, </em>Lily thinks, and it makes her so annoyed and frustrated and upset all over again that she grabs the next item without looking.</p><p>It’s not a pink note from her sister. It’s still in the envelope, in fact. She rips it open, wondering why she’d never read it. After all, she was the sort of sixteen-year-old who thought her English Language mock exam was worth keeping.</p><p>The card itself is shaped like a cartoon squirrel, or perhaps a chipmunk. The squirrel-slash-chipmunk is crazed with glee, carrying a small banner that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY! What do squirrels have to do with birthdays? </p><p>Frowning, she opens the card. The printed text says <em> May your year be positively nutty, </em> which makes her snort. Below it, someone has written <em> Happy 16th, Notebook Girl. I’d make a squirrel pun, but that’d be a corny joke. </em></p><p>It takes her a moment to get it. There’s just a sliver of space between “a” and “corny.”</p><p>“Acorny joke,” Lily says aloud, feeling like she’s just huffed glue. Hysterical laughter is going to spill out of her any moment now. </p><p>“What?” Dorcas is staring at her with no small amount of worry. “What did you just say?”</p><p>“Wow, can you believe it—” Mary walks back into the sitting room with the photo still in hand “—I forgot that this was <em> that </em>year, the Elvis and Audrey party at Claire Welles’s house.”</p><p><em> “Nooooo.” </em> Lily’s barely aware the sound is coming from her. “No, don’t say it—”</p><p>“Oh, my God.” Dorcas holds up a handful of photos, eyes wide. “I just found… There we are, oh, my <em> stars. </em> No wonder you wanted to skip to Year Eleven.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Lily says faintly, which is a little hard to believe considering she’s sitting on the rug in her ugly off-brand Minions onesie with a bottle of expensive-but-bad wine in one hand and a birthday card from 2014 in the other. “It’s fine, we’ll just...hurry through these and get rid of Elvis and Audrey once and for all.”</p><p>Her friends exchange glances.</p><p>“Yeah, <em> that </em> was the actual worst idea she’s ever had,” says Mary. Lily can’t even disagree.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2013</h4><p>Lily stopped on the rain-slick pavement, smiling to herself. Claire Welles’s mansion sat in front of her like a many-tiered cake, strung up with lights that seemed excessive even for Christmas. There was even a burbling fountain in the front garden, its lights flashing red and green alternately. Not that it bothered Lily. No, that day she was happy, because she believed in love.</p><p>Over the next few months her parents would finalise their divorce, her sister would begin dating the first in a series of boorish snobs (each worse than the last), and Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow would announce their split. Nothing is sacred, not even “Fix You” from Coldplay’s 2005 album <em> X&amp;Y. </em> But Lily didn’t know that yet.</p><p>No, Lily Evans was a believer. She was attending her first themed party since she’d been about ten; childish things really did become cool again eventually. She and Mary and Dorcas had agreed that Elvis and Audrey demanded a sophisticated approach. So she was not in the black dress, elbow-length gloves, and pearl necklace gimme.</p><p>Lily had opted instead for Audrey circa <em> Funny Face</em>: a black jumper, pencil trousers, a loose-fitting yellow jacket, and a polka-dot scarf tied over her hair. The jacket was a windbreaker, really, borrowed from one of her dad’s friends, but it added up to a decent outfit. She felt very grown-up indeed. And, well, ready to burst into song, which probably wasn’t very grown-up — but that impulse could be suppressed.</p><p>In the too-large coat’s enormous pocket was a notebook. And the notebook was why Lily believed in love.</p><p>“Tonight is the night,” she said to herself, just as two boys walked past her up to Claire’s house. They gave her funny looks. She did not care.</p><p>In short order she was joined by Dorcas, who wore an artfully wrinkled button-down and had a blue sleep mask on her head.</p><p>“How aren’t you freezing?” said Lily, laughing. </p><p>Dorcas shrugged. “I don’t dress for the weather.”</p><p>They were waiting for a few more moments before Mary turned up in an all-white jumpsuit, with her hair teased to dizzying heights.</p><p>“We’re going to look better than anyone in there,” she said by way of greeting.</p><p>“Then let’s go do it,” said Lily.</p><p>For all its aggressive outdoor lighting, the inside of Claire Welles’s mansion was dim. More strings of light led the way towards the faint music, like will o’ the wisp tempting a traveller from the safe path.</p><p>The lights ended at a closed door. It was vibrating in the doorframe in time with the bass of an Avicii song. Mary reached for the doorknob. Lily took a deep breath.</p><p>They walked into a wall of noise. Instinctively she winced. Mary was quite well-off and popular, and so had earned many an invitation to older students’ parties over the years. But never had the circumstances aligned to allow the girls to attend one before — as in, the combined circumstances of Lily’s parents saying yes, Dorcas’s parents saying yes, and all of them feeling up to a night out. </p><p>So she wasn’t prepared for the distinct smell of alcohol, sweat, and too much Axe deodorant for any one room. Lily glanced to either side of her, a little relieved to see that both of her friends seemed similarly affected by this potent cocktail.</p><p>“Can someone crack a window or something?” Dorcas said.</p><p>“I think we’ll need to do it ourselves.” Lily shrugged off her coat and knotted the scarf around her neck. It wasn’t enough to fix the uncomfortable warmth, but it was the best she could do without rendering herself unrecognisable as an Audrey. Dorcas’s costume choice was looking cleverer and cleverer by the moment.</p><p>Before they could begin the difficult task of squeezing through the crowd, the hostess appeared as if by magic. Claire Welles, a year older than them at school, was in a full-on wedding dress, veil and all. Thank God other people took the costumes just as seriously, Lily thought, and they hadn’t walked into a party full of <em> Breakfast at Tiffany’s </em>Audreys who laughed at them for trying too hard.</p><p>“Hi, Mary!” Claire pulled her into an embrace. “Elvis, how <em> daring—” </em></p><p>“You know me,” said Mary. “These are my friends Lily and Dorcas.”</p><p>Claire pointed at Lily — for a split second she braced herself for some kind of social rejection — and said, excitedly, <em> “Funny Face! </em> Me too!”</p><p>“Oh,” said Lily, “oh! Of course!” There was no need to have a guard up at all. Tonight was <em> the night, </em> wasn’t it?</p><p>“Are you Lily Evans?” Claire said next, further shocking Lily.</p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>Claire obligingly answered the question she hadn’t asked. “Halliday talks about you <em> all </em> the time. So does Burns. You’re, like, a genius or something.”</p><p>Lily laughed, just as thrilled as she was mortified. </p><p>“Help yourselves to the drinks. Mummy and Daddy won’t be home, so you needn’t worry about adults.” Somehow, Claire Welles made <em> Mummy and Daddy </em> — spoken entirely without self-consciousness — seem like the most natural phrase in the world. “Let me take your coats!” </p><p>Lily handed over her jacket, singular, and made note of where Claire disappeared to with it. It had the notebook inside it, of course, but the pocket had a button. It would be fine.</p><p>“Drinks first, or window first?” said Lily.</p><p>“Drinks,” said Mary, just as Dorcas said, “Window.”</p><p>“Oh, I’ll meet you at the window,” Mary said, waving a hand.</p><p>“We’re not supposed to leave anyone alone,” Dorcas said uncertainly. “It was one of Dad’s five party rules.”</p><p>“You’re not to give your dad a blow-by-blow of the night, Dorcas,” Mary said firmly, and disappeared into the crowd before either of them could protest.</p><p>“She’ll be fine,” Lily said, taking Dorcas’s hand and letting her friend lead her to the back window. </p><p>Luckily for them, the window in question was floor-to-ceiling, opening into a back garden. They cracked it open and were rewarded by a glorious blast of cold, fresh air. Both girls sighed happily. </p><p>“Perfect,” Dorcas pronounced. “We can dance in this corner and it’ll be like our own personal AC.”</p><p>Lily laughed. There were no uncomfortable expectations that night. Things would happen in their own time, she would enjoy the company of her best friends in the world, and — and — <em> and </em> she would finally meet the boy of her dreams. Very nearly literally.</p><p>Mary arrived with drinks in hand — a boy from their year was ferrying the third, undiluted adoration in his gaze. She thanked him, and Lily was quite sure he swayed on the spot.</p><p>“What am I drinking?” Dorcas took a wary sip, eyes widening. “Oh, this is actually good, Mare!”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Mary said pointedly. “You’ve got a piña colada, Lily’s is a strawberry daiquiri. Mine’s good old-fashioned rum and coke.”</p><p>“Wow.” Lily’s very pink drink was sweet and bright, the undercurrent of alcohol not so off-putting when combined with the berry flavour. “Claire’s parents let her spend this much money on a party?”</p><p>“Have you seen their house?” Dorcas said in an undertone. “I think the Welleses can manage.”</p><p>They certainly could. Lily was unnerved, suddenly, by the thought that a girl like Claire Welles went to the same school as her. Her parents’ bedroom was as large as this party space. Her pants had been borrowed — all right, <em> stolen </em> — from Petunia’s wardrobe, her scarf loaned from her mother, and her brand-new flats a Christmas gift.</p><p>But Claire Welles knew who she was, and thought she was a genius. For tonight she did not need to feel out of place.</p><p>The music segued to Lorde. Dorcas said, “Oh, we <em> have </em> to dance to this!” And so they did.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was almost half past ten. Lily was aware of that fact so acutely, it was like electricity buzzing at her fingertips. </p><p>“Don’t you have to go?” Dorcas shouted in her ear.</p><p>“Yes,” she said, breathless, “I do.”</p><p>“Find us afterwards,” called Mary.</p><p>Lily separated herself from them and went in search of her jacket. There was a heap of coats on a sofa in the corner, although a couple was snogging quite enthusiastically on top of them. Lily hovered awkwardly beside them for an excruciating few minutes, trying not to look.</p><p>“Oi,” said a voice, “she’s trying to get her jacket, if you could stop <em> necking.” </em></p><p>Her unlikely saviour was lanky and bespectacled, his messy hair resisting what looked like a halfhearted attempt at an Elvis pompadour. He gave Lily a businesslike nod as the couple scattered.</p><p>“Thanks, Potter,” she said, rooting through the jackets for her own.</p><p>“No problem.” He didn’t leave. “You, er, leaving so soon?”</p><p>“The point is to stay until midnight, isn’t it? No, I’m just — cold…” </p><p>He appeared sceptical. For good reason; he had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Lily did not have time to come up with a better excuse. Her dad’s friend’s windbreaker was nowhere to be found, no matter how she searched.</p><p>Potter sighed. “What colour is it?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Your jacket, what colour is it?”</p><p>“Oh...yellow.”</p><p>The playlist went through Jason Derulo and Katy Perry before Potter finally produced the jacket, yanking it out of the mess they’d made of the pile.</p><p>“Be careful!” Lily warned.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” he retorted.</p><p>Ignoring this, she put it on at once and reached for the button to the all-important pocket that contained the all-important notebook.</p><p>It was empty. She froze.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Potter’s voice came to her as if from very far away.</p><p>The notebook must have fallen out. The button hadn’t been fastened right or something — stupid, <em> stupid, </em> how could she have been so stupid? — and now the notebook was gone. But if she couldn’t find it, she’d lost Notebook Boy.</p><p>At once she got on her hands and knees, searching the floor around the sofa. In the darkness she could not see a damn thing. She felt the varnished wooden floor, bumped her fingers against one of the sofa’s legs...but no notebook. Tears gathered in her eyes as she sat back on her heels. Behind her the crowd was laughing as one — not <em> at </em> her, though they might as well have been — and filtering away to another room.</p><p>“Are...you all right?” Potter was still there, watching her with uncharacteristic concern.</p><p>“Fine,” said Lily shortly. “I’m <em> fine. </em> I just had to meet—” She cut herself off. Potter didn’t want the details.</p><p>“Lily, what are you doing on the floor?” Dorcas grabbed at her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, they’re playing a game.”</p><p>Still clutching her jacket, she let herself be dragged to the enormous kitchen. Everyone was clustered around the spotless, marble-topped island. Dorcas and Lily slipped in beside Mary.</p><p>“Where were you? Did you find him?”</p><p>“I lost the notebook,” Lily mumbled. Her heart hurt just to say it.</p><p>“We’ll find it,” Dorcas promised, squeezing her hand.</p><p>Trying to compose herself, she took a sip of the drink Mary handed her — she seemed to have an infinite supply — and considered the faces around her. The kitchen’s dim lighting was far better suited to this than the party proper. </p><p>Lily spotted Claire again, with a gaggle of girls all from the year above her. There were the two boys who’d snickered at her earlier, Avery and something-or-other, and — Lily’s heart skipped a beat — Ben Thomasin, who was in Claire’s year and positively dreamy. True, his hair was blonde, but his poise — his smile — made him the perfect Elvis.</p><p>Lily didn’t think he was the boy from the notebook. Or, rather, she didn’t dare hope it was. But the boy had to be here, at this party, already. Maybe it <em> was </em> Ben Thomasin, and maybe he would forgive her for losing the notebook too.</p><p>Or maybe he already had it. Maybe he was waiting to surprise her at midnight.</p><p>“Truth or dare?” one of Claire’s friends suggested, waggling her eyebrows.</p><p>“Spin the bottle,” James Potter said, in a voice that made Lily think he might have been joking. But then, he was always doing that — joking, that was. He’d only started at their school that September, and already everyone knew him as a prankster. The boys around him, all on the football team, laughed appreciatively.</p><p>“Spin the bottle it is,” said Claire, producing a nearly-empty one. “Who’ll finish this off?”</p><p>Several of the Year Eleven boys clamoured for a chance to do Claire’s bidding, but she finally handed the bottle to Ben Thomasin. Of course she did, Lily thought, who wouldn’t have? </p><p>Tipping it in Claire’s direction, Ben drained the bottle and screwed the cap back on. “Get ready,” he said, grinning, and he spun the bottle in the centre of the island.</p><p>It seemed to whirl around for an eon. Lily, at this point rather buzzed, her dismay numbed by the steady feed of daiquiris, wondered what would happen if it stopped at her. Her first kiss had taken place over the summer holidays, in the two weeks her family had spent in Ballycastle visiting her aunt Nora. She had not seen the boy since, although they’d made a halfhearted attempt at talking over Facebook.</p><p>But this would be very different, kissing a boy from school. He’d be around for a while. And what if she were to kiss someone who <em> wasn’t </em> Notebook Boy? Would he take offence? She couldn’t deny that she wouldn’t be too happy if she found out he’d snogged some other girl on the night they were supposed to meet…</p><p>The bottle pointed between two people Lily did not know. She heaved a sigh of relief. </p><p>The game went from Jenna Price to Alex Hardcastle to Deirdre Jones to Kylie Winter — the boys had hooted for that one, then booed when Deirdre had kissed Kylie on the cheek instead — before arriving at Ben Thomasin. Lily averted her eyes. Ben spun the bottle again.</p><p>The gleaming bronze cap was aimed squarely at her. </p><p>“Oh, my God,” Dorcas whispered. Mary gasped.</p><p>James Potter bumped into the table, swearing quietly. The bottle rolled a few centimetres to the left, but it was still pointing at Lily. Ben Thomasin shrugged and half-smiled, coming around to her side of the table.</p><p>“What’s your name?” he said.</p><p>“Lily.” </p><p>She did not hesitate, and she looked him right in the eye instead of shyly avoiding his gaze like she’d done every other day of her life. Lily was determined to savour every second of this. She might have lost the notebook — but she could still get a very dishy boy. Maybe Notebook Boy.</p><p> “Cool of you to skip the costume.”</p><p>She looked down at herself, suddenly worried that she’d swapped outfits without realising. How awkward. Ben Thomasin hadn’t seen <em> Funny Face. </em></p><p>“Oh, er, no,” said Lily, “I’m in costume.”</p><p>“Oh, right,” he said, like he still didn’t really understand but was willing to pretend so they could move along. “I suppose we should — do this thing.”</p><p>She tried not to cringe. <em> Not </em> the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. Nevertheless, she tilted her head upwards and let her eyes flutter shut. This was how it would happen: he would put his hands on her waist, pull her close, press his mouth to hers—</p><p>He skipped right to that last step, taking her by surprise. It lasted some seven seconds. Lily wasn’t sure they counted as <em> nice. </em> At best she would give him <em> fine. </em> Was that a function of Ben Thomasin, her own lack of experience, or the mundane setting?</p><p>Of course, she couldn’t change a thing. It was over already.</p><p>She tried not to let her disappointment show. (Maybe it would be all right if Notebook Boy <em> wasn’t </em> Ben Thomasin after all.) Then he was pushing the bottle into her hands.</p><p>“Your go,” he said.</p><p>Lily turned back to the table. Ben was the only boy there she’d really thought about kissing, but the entire premise of the game required her to kiss someone else too. She glanced around nervously. They’d rearranged themselves since she’d last stood there; Avery and what’s-it were gone, Claire and her friends had spread out, and James Potter was now directly opposite her, looking utterly bored. If he hadn’t wanted to play spin the bottle, he shouldn’t have suggested it.</p><p>She put the bottle down and let it spin. It stopped at Daniel Grainger, who smiled at her. Well, there were worse boys to snog. With the nervousness of the first one fast fading, Lily met him by the corner of the table. </p><p>Shockingly, this went rather better than Ben. Daniel’s lips were soft, and he did not smell too strongly of Axe. And at least he actually touched her before he kissed her. When they parted Lily gave him a genuine smile of her own.</p><p>She squeezed back into place beside Dorcas and Mary.</p><p>“Well, well, well,” Dorcas said slyly.</p><p>“Don’t make a thing of it,” said Lily, though her blasé tone did not make up for her grin.</p><p>Daniel kissed Tori Saunders, who in turn kissed Marcus Lovett. And the bottle spun back towards Lily once more. She laughed, as did Marcus. </p><p>“What are the odds?” he said.</p><p>“Pretty slim, I’d guess.”</p><p>Just as she started towards him, someone else called, “What about your <em> loverboy, </em> Evans?”</p><p>She squinted round for the source of the voice. The crowd parted to reveal Avery and — Mulciber, that was his name. The boys were wearing twin impish grins, and in Avery’s hands was a familiar red notebook. Her stomach sank.</p><p><em> “Dear Notebook Boy,” </em> Mulciber read, in a high-pitched simper that sounded nothing like her, <em> “sometimes I feel so alone, staring up at the stars and thinking how small and insignificant we are. But then I remember that we’ve become friends in such a short time—” </em></p><p>“Shut up,” said Lily, her blood roaring in her ears. She was not afraid, or upset — she was bloody furious. How dare he? How dare this stupid, insignificant boy read her private thoughts, and how dare he laugh? </p><p>
  <em> “—can we promise to be friends—” </em>
</p><p>Avery cackled. “How does Notebook Boy feel about you snogging half the room, yeah?”</p><p>In a heartbeat she was right in front of the pair of them. Lily was grateful that she’d inherited her father’s height; at five-foot-seven, she was taller than Avery, and a respectable inch shorter than Mulciber. The latter stopped reading abruptly, glaring at her. Avery was starting to look afraid. </p><p>She stared them down. “That’s <em> my </em> notebook, and I want it back.”</p><p>Mulciber arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And what’re you gonna do?” He and his friend exchanged glances, laughing a little.</p><p>Lily shook out her right hand. “I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to give it back to me.”</p><p>“Oooh,” said Avery, “we’re not scared of <em> you!” </em></p><p>She smiled. “One.”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid. Just give it back.” Potter popped up beside her, the picture of ease. “You’ve had your fun.”</p><p>“Stay out of this, Potter,” said Lily. <em> “Two.” </em></p><p>“Yeah, stay out of this,” Mulciber said. “I want to see what Evans is going to try.”</p><p>“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Potter muttered.</p><p>“Three.” </p><p><em> Thumb out, </em> Lily reminded herself. She clenched her hand into a fist, drew it back, and drove it right into Mulciber’s sneering face.</p><p>At once there was a great deal of shouting and screaming. Mulciber was the source of much of it; he had one hand pressed to his nose, which was gushing blood. Lily shook out her hand once more — her knuckles would probably bruise — and knelt to pick up the dropped notebook. </p><p>“Oh, oh, oh, this is <em> not </em> good—” Dorcas appeared beside her, eyes wide with worry. “Claire looks cross.”</p><p>“We’re leaving.” Mary took her by the arm and steered her out of the kitchen, through the hall, and out of Claire Welles’s mansion. </p><p>The December air nipped at her cheeks, but Lily was glad for it after the suffocating heat of the party. She sucked in great lungfuls of it, trembling with residual adrenaline.</p><p>“God, I’m so sorry, I’ve definitely spoiled our chance at another of Claire’s parties,” she began, turning to Mary.</p><p>Her friend was alight with glee. “Are you joking? That was fucking <em> awesome. </em> Stay here, I’ll phone Mum.”</p><p>Dorcas had been clinging to Lily’s other side. She released her now, pushing her curls from her face. “That was a horrible idea. <em> Awful, </em>Lily, just awful. What if they’d hit back?”</p><p>“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”</p><p>“Clearly!”</p><p>“I’m not going to make a habit of it,” she promised. </p><p>“I hope not!” Shaking her head, Dorcas began to pace up and down the pavement — whether because of her frustration or because she was cold, Lily was not sure. She accepted the windbreaker without comment when Lily held it out to her, but did not stop the pacing.</p><p>Lily backed up a few paces, sitting down in the gravel-littered drive. The sky seemed too bright for this time of night. She couldn’t see the stars. In no time there would be firecrackers too, and lots of shouting, and general spoiling of the loveliest, quietest hours of day. New Year’s, she decided, was overrated.</p><p>“Hey, are you all right?”</p><p>She glanced up; Potter was blotting out what few stars she could make out. Touching of him to follow her all the way outside to ask after her.</p><p>“Still doing fine,” she said, only now she thought she meant it.</p><p>“And the...hand?”</p><p>She held it up for inspection. “Surviving.”</p><p>Potter chuckled. “Well. That’s good. Mulciber and Avery are twats.”</p><p>“I know.” Lily looked at the notebook, dropped in her lap. “And all over this stupid thing.”</p><p>His brows rose. “Serious enough to get into a fight over.”</p><p>He was right, of course. She’d spent a week clinging to this book like it was a lifeline. But in that moment Lily hated it and everything it stood for. Parties were sweaty and ordinary. Boys were not princes. </p><p>She would have to deal with the consequences of this as soon as the winter hols were over. People would say all sorts of things about her, and her cheeks still burned to think how everyone had heard her message from the notebook. </p><p>The stars were not so bright anymore, at least not from where she sat just then.</p><p>“Stupid,” she repeated firmly. “I should never have brought it, and I should never have written in it in the first place.”</p><p>He was not looking at her anymore. “Oh. Right.”</p><p>Of course, she’d probably bored him to death with the extended saga of the bloody notebook. Lily held out her hand. Potter stared at it like he had never seen one before.</p><p>“Help me up, then,” she said impatiently.</p><p>“Oh. Right,” Potter said again, hauling her to her feet in one smooth motion. </p><p>Lily cut across the front garden towards the garish flashing fountain. She studied its rippling surface for a moment.</p><p>Potter had run up behind her. “Are you sure you want to—”</p><p>She dropped the book in the water. Let the Welleses fish it out tomorrow.</p><p>Then Lily remembered they probably paid someone to clean their fountain. She scrabbled for it, an endeavour of flapping hands and muttered swears. Finally the sopping thing was in her hands again.</p><p>“I am tossing this out,” she told James Potter.</p><p>“Yeah, I got the idea,” he said drily.</p><p>Lily grimaced, holding it at arm’s length so it didn’t drip all over Petunia’s pencil trousers. As she did she noticed that James’s costume — a bedazzled red number — ended not in boots but fancy oxfords, the old-fashioned sort that looked like bowling shoes.</p><p>“Nice shoes,” she said.</p><p>This comment, curiously enough, seemed to pain him a great deal. James grimaced and said, “Thanks.”</p><p>Mary’s mum had arrived; she sounded the horn, and the other two girls started towards the car.</p><p>Lily backed away from him. “See you after break.”</p><p>He lifted a hand in a limp wave. She jogged over to the car. The first thing she did when they arrived at Mary’s was toss the sodden notebook in the rubbish.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 26, 2019</h4><p>“Yeah, <em> that </em> was the actual worst idea she’s ever had,” Mary says.</p><p>“I don’t know what possessed me to think pouring my heart out to a stranger in a notebook would end well,” says Lily, taking a big gulp of wine. </p><p>Dorcas, wincing, says, “You’re not being fair. You were so happy trading those messages, Lil, it was adorable.”</p><p>“It was mad,” Lily corrects. “Thank God we’re not still in Year Ten.”</p><p>“I’ll drink to that.” Mary clinks her bottle against Lily’s. “You never did sort out who it was, did you?”</p><p>She makes a face. “I’m better off not knowing. Could you imagine going home for Christmas and knowing the next-door neighbour’s basically read my diary?” </p><p>Dorcas laughs. “Well, it definitely wasn’t Billy, so you needn’t worry about <em> that.” </em></p><p>“But think about it.” Lily pushes herself upright. “What if...what if it were someone who then dated someone else we went to school with? <em> God, </em> what if he’s <em> married?” </em> Just considering the options is like being repeatedly hit in the head with secondhand embarrassment.</p><p>Except, it’s firsthand, since that all happened to <em> her. </em></p><p>“Mum would try to set me up with him, if he’s still single,” Lily adds. </p><p>Mary mimes gagging. “Horror show. I agree, it can’t be anyone good. They’d just have asked you out later like a normal human being.”</p><p>“Well, excuse me for being an optimist,” says Dorcas with a flourish.</p><p>“You’re excused,” the other two tells her.</p><p>She aims a kick at Lily and catches the coffee table instead. “Mother<em> fucker. </em> Fuck! Fuck, ouch. Erm, could’ve been Danny Grainger, right?”</p><p>Lily points the bottle at her, considering. “A good snog.” Although, Danny Grainger didn’t seem the type to make <em> acorny joke. </em></p><p>“That’s your worst case scenario,” Mary drawls. “Danny’s engaged.”</p><p>“No!” says Dorcas. “Since when?”</p><p>“Since last week. His girlfriend from uni.”</p><p>“I can’t believe we know engaged people now,” Lily says mournfully.</p><p>“Because you don’t believe in love, or because it makes you feel old?” asks Dorcas, the picture of innocence.</p><p>Lily kicks right back at her. “Both, arsehole.”</p><p>“Fine, not Danny Grainger, then,” Dorcas says, as if this is a massive concession on her part. “How about — oh, James Potter?”</p><p>“Potter? Didn’t he leave?” Mary frowns.</p><p>“He moved, didn’t he? That could be why Lily never heard from him again!” Dorcas is unduly excited by this possibility.</p><p>“His parents moved,” Lily corrects, “and he went to some posh boarding school. But your theory’s shot.” She picks up the birthday card and waves it in her direction. “Notebook Boy left me this on my birthday. How could he have done that if he was at boarding school?”</p><p>Dorcas deflates. “OK, maybe. Hell.” </p><p>“Nice try,” says Mary.</p><p>“Bet he grew up fit, though.”</p><p>“Please,” Lily says with a groan, “we are <em> not </em> Facebook stalking him. This is enough Year Ten digging for one night.”</p><p>Dorcas ignores her and grabs for the nearest phone — Lily’s, plugged into the wall. She taps in the passcode, then groans. “It fucking died.”</p><p>That’s what happens to a phone battery when you drop it in the shower, apparently. Lily sighs. If only she’d broken it before Christmas and got herself a replacement. </p><p>“Good,” she says. “We’re <em> not </em> looking him up.”</p><p>“D’you reckon he knows Remus Lupin?” Mary asks.</p><p>“People who went to posh boarding school don’t all know each other, Mare. Don’t be ridiculous.”</p><p>“Just asking. Which one did Remus go to, again?”</p><p>“Bermondsey-Chadwick-Garrison Abbey,” says Dorcas.</p><p>“That is <em> not </em> a school. You literally just made that up,” says Lily, snorting with laughter. “What the fuck, Dorcas?”</p><p>“Seriously, when he says the name of it my mind just goes blank and substitutes with something random. It happens every single time—”</p><p>“You are so stupid,” says Mary fondly.</p><p>Lily smiles, letting her head fall back against the armchair behind her. “I’m glad I kept you two from Year Ten.”</p><p>“We know you are, babe,” Dorcas says.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Oh, that’s all wrong,” Lily mumbles, tearing her gaze away from the grim view outside the passenger-side window. “I’m so sorry, Shelby, I’m telling this all backwards.”</p><p>Shelby sighs. Her hands have been off the steering wheel for twenty minutes now, since the traffic hasn’t budged one bit. She looks like she regrets nothing more than her decision to work on New Year’s. </p><p>“I told you what <em> my </em> week’s been like,” says Shelby, “and I did it properly.”</p><p>“No, you did. It was a very well-told story. Lots of pathos. I’m, like, genuinely worried for your brother now.”</p><p>“Then you start at the beginning of yours.”</p><p>She hesitates. “You want to hear <em> more </em> Year Ten drama?”</p><p>Shelby reconsiders. “Start at a better middle, then."</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Holly Jolly Fucking James</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"All Gavins, as a rule, are cads. Free advice for you — avoid them like the plague."</p><p><b>music</b>: i wanna dance with somebody (whitney houston), last christmas (wham!), so hot you're hurting my feelings (caroline polachek), gorgeous (taylor swift), what i like about it (i listen to the 5sos version im so sorry), all i want for christmas is you (mariah carey)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 29, 2019</h4><p>“Are you sure we couldn’t do pub karaoke on New Year’s?” Dorcas says, though she’s already halfway through her eye makeup. </p><p>“Yes,” says Mary. She pauses to toss several more tops at Lily, who can only cower and shield herself from the barrage. “Because the pub doesnt <em> do </em> karaoke on New Year’s, and also because Lily’s old and will get cranky if we party too hard on New Year’s.”</p><p>“Hey!” Lily gets a sequinned blouse to the face for her troubles. </p><p>“Stop complaining. Don’t you want to have fun and look hot?”</p><p>She examines the options laid out on Mary’s bed around her. They are all very...Mary, rather designed for someone with a slimmer figure than hers. But she makes a good faith effort, and finally fishes out a lacy bodysuit with a sweetheart neckline and slim straps. </p><p>“Too low, d’you think?” She waves it at her friends. </p><p>“Definitely not,” says Dorcas without turning around. </p><p>“I won’t have my tits falling out at Ned Little’s,” Lily warns. </p><p>“You fucking won’t,” says Mary. “But if you did, hypothetically, they’re great tits. Also, everyone’s had their tits fall out at Ned Little’s.”</p><p>“Define <em> everyone,” </em> says Dorcas.</p><p>“Oh, I do mean everyone.”</p><p>“That doesn’t actually clear anything up.”</p><p>Mary rolls her eyes. “Anyway, Lily, that’s a boy-catching top. Good choice.”</p><p>She makes a noise of amusement. “I’m not planning on painstakingly teaching a guy how my body works tonight, thanks.”</p><p>Dorcas shouts a long, drawn-out <em> “Booooooo” </em> and Mary tells her to shut the fuck up.</p><p>“Snog someone, then, for my sake,” says Mary. “It’s depressing seeing your dry spell. At least Dorcas is waiting until marriage.”</p><p>Dorcas flings a hairbrush at her, which Mary expertly dodges. </p><p>“We’ll see,” Lily laughs. That’s well-known code for <em> not likely. </em> </p><p>
  
</p><p>Ian the cabbie’s just finished telling Lily about his Irish second cousins by the time they arrive at Ned Little’s. He looks actually sorry to see them go. Lily has been told she’s also inherited her father’s tendency to make small talk with strangers, like an uncle at the park. It certainly helps at work.</p><p>They have to pay in cash, which Mary is slowly counting. “There’s people behind us, Mare, hurry up,” Dorcas says, jiggling her knee impatiently. Mary ignores her. The shaking phone flashlight in Dorcas’s hand makes the inside of the cab seem like a strobe-lit club. </p><p>This is all because when they first started uni together, Dorcas declared that Uber was evil and should not have their financial support. Lily was inclined to favour the practical over the idealistic, even if she wholeheartedly agreed with said ideal.</p><p>But hearing about this socially conscious instinct, Dorcas’s parents had volunteered to subsidise their taxi rides. Lily preferred to walk or cycle when she could anyway, and given that her night-out cab bills with the girls were never egregious, she felt alright letting the Meadoweses have their way with that. She hasn’t had Uber on her phone, ever, and even in the six months since uni ended she’s been too lazy to change that.</p><p>Honestly, she might never be a rideshare user. Dorcas has done her job with that conversion.</p><p>“—I’ve not been up to see Neil in years,” Ian continues. “Keep meaning to, but—”</p><p>“—life gets busy,” says Lily, one eye on the steadily devolving situation in the backseat. The phone flashlight flails around. “I know. Dad’s got a new girlfriend, which complicates family Christmas a bit.”</p><p>He winces. “Were you just in Ballycastle, this Christmas?”</p><p>“Oh, Capecastle, actually. That’s where Dad is now. Mum didn’t come with us, which is probably for the best.” Lily shudders at the thought. “Moira’s not really her type. I mean, aside from the obvious, being her ex-husband’s new girlfriend part.”</p><p>“Never easy, divorce,” Ian says knowledgeably. “Then again, how’s it fair on the kids to stay together just for them, yeah? All that pressure.”</p><p>“Lose-lose.”</p><p>“That’s the thing.” Ian pauses, cocking his head. “Did you say Moira?”</p><p>“Hmm? Yeah, Moira—”</p><p>“—Moran?”</p><p>Lily’s mouth falls open into an <em> o. </em> “No way, d’you know her?”</p><p>“Believe it or not,” says Ian. “Neil’s third cousin by marriage or something, I don’t remember the details. But I’ve just seen a photo of them from Neil’s wedding on the Facebook. Yeah, Moira Moran, I remember her. What are the odds, hey?”</p><p>“Slim, I reckon.”</p><p>“Here you are!” Dorcas grabs the money right out of Mary’s hand and shoves it in the cabbie’s face. “Thanks <em> so </em> much, have a good night!”</p><p>“Stay safe, girls,” Ian says.</p><p>“You too, Ian,” says Lily, bracing herself against the cold air. Noise spills out of Ned Little’s — someone’s singing Whitney Houston, and doing a fantastically bad job of it too. </p><p>Strictly speaking it’s a uni pub. The girls tried to find a different one after they’d finished school — “If a fresher paws at me I’ll die,” Mary’d said — but that excursion had not ended well. They’ve accepted that Ned Little’s is their ride or die pub.</p><p>“You need to calm down,” Mary is telling Dorcas on the curb. “They bloody waited, didn’t they?”</p><p>“I’m calm,” says Dorcas, hands up in surrender. “That guy glared at us as he went in, but I’m calm.”</p><p>“You’ll live even if a random arsehole on the street decides he doesn’t like you.” Mary turned to Lily next, hands on her hips. “And you! If you’ve finished indulging your pathological desire to make friends with strangers, we can go inside.”</p><p>Lily laughs. Mary’s bluntness is a taste she’s acquired long, long ago, so she rarely takes her friend to heart. Besides, they’re all two shots in, she looks really good, and Ian the cabbie was quite nice. So the evening has got off to a good start.</p><p>She links arms with her friends and they skip-stumble like Dorothy and the motley bunch through the wide-open door to the pub. The Whitney Houston sounds even worse the closer they get. Lily’s smile gets broader. </p><p>“Right, I’m going to put our names down,” Dorcas says, shucking off her coat. Nicole who’s in charge of karaoke was in her study group last year, and always squeezes them in a few slots above the bottom of the list. “What’ll we sing first?”</p><p>“Save your breathtaking vocal performances for after Lily and I are worn out, please,” says Mary. </p><p>“Surprise us,” says Lily, which has the effect of surprising all three of them.</p><p>“You’re in a good mood,” Mary observes as they find a tall, wobbly table. “Did you secretly do more shots without us?”</p><p>“Hilarious.”</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“Well, it’s a nice night. I’ve been rid of a whole box of stupid shit. I’m ready to rise into the new year like a phoenix.” Lily caps off this little speech with an expressive shrug.</p><p>Mary stares at her. “My God, you <em> did </em> do extra shots.”</p><p>“Hi-<em>lar-</em>ious.”</p><p>“You know, I’m fifty-fifty on your weird hoard-and-discard life strategy,” Mary says, making eyes at the fit bartender across the room. “But unburdened Lily is quite the pub companion.”</p><p><em> Unburdened. </em>There, that’s the word. Fuck it all: Petunia, her offensive pig of a fiancé, her dad’s stilted, awkward Christmas invitation, her mum’s apparent discomfort. Fuck three days in Capecastle thinking that love fucking sucks, and if there’s a god they must think it’s all a massive joke, because all it does is make everyone around her miserable, self included. Fuck the very concept of love.</p><p>Lily can feel her smile getting gradually more manic, and smooths it away before Mary can notice. Dorcas bounds back to them, beaming. </p><p>“Guess who I’ve just seen,” she coos. “The <em> nicest </em> man ever is here.”</p><p>“Remus Lupin’s having a night out?” Mary raises her eyebrows. “Remus Lupin <em> knows </em> where Ned Little’s is?”</p><p>Dorcas elbows Mary into silence. “He’s got two guys with him. Maybe his friends from school.”</p><p>“Posh school? Delightful,” mutters Mary.</p><p>“Anyway, we should go join them after we get drinks.” Only Dorcas takes the mere presence of friendly faces as an invitation; only Dorcas could pull it off. </p><p>“Are either of the friends my type?” Mary wants to know.</p><p>Dorcas considers this for a moment. <em> “Maybe </em> one of them. Or you could just go home with Fit Tom again.”</p><p>They all glance covertly at the bartender in question. At that moment he is mixing a drink with unnecessary flourishes, bouncing the different glasses around to much oohing and aahing. </p><p>“Oh my God,” Lily whispers, “can he just pour the sodding drink?”</p><p>“This hurts to watch,” says Dorcas.</p><p>“I know, I hate him,” Mary says with a sigh. “But, you know, tried and tested.”</p><p>Lily isn’t so compelled by Fit Tom’s fitness to overlook the weird approach to bartending, but she can see what Mary means. The very effort of explaining what she likes and doesn’t like to a stranger makes hooking up altogether unappealing. The few times she’s done it in her life, they’ve been in the middle of final exams, quick and irrelevant acts that Mary gleefully termed <em> stress relief. </em> They were never very relieving.</p><p>“Anyway. Drinks? Who’ll be my extra hand?” Gone are the days when Mary can commandeer a random boy to do her bidding — or, at least, gone are the days when the girls trusted the average random boy.</p><p>“Not it,” Lily says at once. “I’ll go say hi to Remus and scope out your maybe, Mare.”</p><p>“Work your pathological desire,” Mary says, “but also, don’t overshare.”</p><p>“Golden advice.” </p><p>Rolling her eyes, Lily spots the high table that the guys are at. She and Remus overlapped in several literature classes during their time at uni. Each interaction she’s had with him has confirmed he is, in fact, the nicest man in the world. There is no chance that he could have annoying snob friends. Absolutely none.</p><p>One has his back to her, but the other is quite plainly the guy Dorcas called Mary’s <em> maybe. </em> He’s aristocratically good-looking, with the cheekbones and pouty mouth and elegant, long hair. Just looking at him, she judges there’s a decent chance that he is an annoying snob friend. </p><p><em> Remus Lupin, don’t fail me now. </em> If she has to fight with some toff about politics on a decent night out, Lily will fucking snap.</p><p>Abruptly Remus and the maybe peel away from the table, laughing. They’re headed to the bar. So there goes her shot at scoping out the latter and chatting with the former. Lily’s not afraid of talking to strangers — obviously, considering Ian the cabbie — but the idea of going up there and introducing herself to the third member of their group is daunting. </p><p>Vaguely she remembers that Remus does have a set of best mates from school, who went to uni elsewhere. So if these are those friends, and she mucks up the introduction, Remus might be put off her forever.</p><p>Not that that’s likely. Mary could probably screw it up by sleeping with the other friend first. But, still. </p><p>So Lily angles herself away from their table and leans an elbow against an unoccupied one next to it. The third friend is within sight, shifting around to get a better view of the man who’s gone up to sing. </p><p>But it turns out this is even weirder than introducing herself would’ve been. They’re sort of not exactly next to one another, with a polite gap between them that would allow any passerby to sneak through without a fuss. Lily tells herself she needed to snag another table anyway. It isn’t as though all six of them could squeeze around that tiny thing. </p><p>The third friend puts his chin in one hand as the synthy opening to “Last Christmas” plays. Lily glances at him almost inadvertently.</p><p>She’s going to be sick. </p><p>He’s got terrifically messy hair — that much she’d seen from behind, creeping up on them. But the rear view didn’t reveal his jawline — sharp, even obscured by his hand, and, OK, Lily’s <em> trying </em> not to think it, but his hand is really… </p><p>Well, he’s got nice fingers. Long and slim, like a pianist’s.</p><p>That’s a lie. Her internal monologue is fully just <em> big hands big hands big hands. </em> </p><p>He’s got specs on, and Lily is a brand-new Clark Kent convert. Except this guy’s not really the unassuming, mild-mannered alter-ego type. His eyebrows have this amused tilt to them, his lips in a small smile — like he’s already got a joke in mind, and is just waiting for someone to tell it to.</p><p>Lily — God forgive her — stands a little straighter, tosses her hair so that her nearer shoulder is appealingly bare, and cocks her hip so that the curve of her bum in its skirt is perfectly showcased. <em> Come on, </em> she thinks, <em> tell me. </em> She’ll be physically ill if he speaks to someone else first.</p><p>She looks back at the karaoke singer for a moment. That must be the moment when he notices her — she wishes she could rewind and catch it — because when she returns her attention to her immediate surroundings, he’s looking at her. His smile is now a crooked grin.</p><p>“You know what this bloke gets wrong about this song?” he says.</p><p>Lily’s out of practice at playing this game. The last time she picked up a guy in a pub she’d been nineteen, and that didn’t really count because she knew him from uni as well. And that ended in just snogging. </p><p>Not that she’s already jumped to more-than-snogging.</p><p>Still, she rises to the challenge now. Her own smile is polite — an effective ward against weirdos — but she’s sure there is some evidence of her interest in her expression. It would be impossible to hide entirely.</p><p>“What’s that?” she says.</p><p>“The way he says <em> gave </em> and <em> save. </em> Have you ever noticed how George Michael does it?”</p><p>On any given day Lily would be incapable of recalling the particularities of Wham! numbers. But the real chorus comes to her easily now. If she believed in magic that’s what she would attribute it to.</p><p>“Not <em> gave, </em> exactly,” she says, nodding, “but — God, I can’t even say it right—”</p><p>“It’s like the first syllable of <em> gavel. </em> Last Christmas, I <em> gav </em> you my heart—” </p><p>She’s laughing now, properly facing him. So he doesn’t just look good in profile. Maybe it’s the two shots or the unburdening or the, as Mary put it, <em> dry spell, </em> but a solid thirty percent of Lily is currently focused on suppressing every filthy thought she’s having. The remaining seventy percent is very, very aware of him. </p><p>“Gav, short for Gavin?” </p><p>He shakes his head, mock-solemn. “Could be. All Gavins, as a rule, are cads. Free advice for you — avoid them like the plague.”</p><p>Lily scrunches up her face, pretending to consider this very carefully. “Your name’s not Gavin, is it?”</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Was it Ben?” says Shelby before Lily can go on.</p><p>She frowns. “Was it who?”</p><p>“Ben, from your school. Was it him?”</p><p>“Christ, no. I told you Ben Thomasin was a bad snog.”</p><p>“You said he was dreamy, and an average snog,” Shelby corrects. “Besides, it’s been six years. A bloke can improve.”</p><p>“Well, it wasn’t him.”</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 29, 2019</h4><p>“Your name’s not Gavin, is it?” Lily asks.</p><p>That smile, again. “James.”</p><p>She leans back against the table, elbows braced against its surface, and appraises him.  Takes in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the string of tinsel he’s substituted for a tie, his nice shoes. Never flirt with a man with bad taste in shoes, is the rule. He passes the test. Although, if she’s being honest, she stopped evaluating him very early on in “Last Christmas.”</p><p>“James,” she says, testing the name out. “I think I’m safe tonight.”</p><p>She can feel the weight of his gaze. Her line has turned his smile from a light, amused thing to something more knowing. The pub is pleasantly cool, but warmth blooms beneath her skin when he looks at her. He could touch her everywhere he’s looking, she thinks, and maybe even some places he can’t yet see. The space between them is not an obstacle to be crossed, but a prop in this game. What will they do with it next?</p><p>“Oh, good, you’ve met.” Mary’s voice cuts like a knife through their party for two. She sets down a strawberry daiquiri in front of Lily. “Give us a hand, would you? Let’s move the tables closer.”</p><p>Lily knows the statement is aimed at her, but before she can do anything James moves her glass to the other table and pulls the one before her across the little aisle that one separated them. Remus and the other friend arrive. Lily is right next to him, <em> James, </em> close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his skin. </p><p>“Thanks,” she tells him, her voice low. Suddenly everything she says to him feels like it should be a secret.</p><p>“Don’t mention it. You were telling me your name?” </p><p>“Was I?”</p><p>“Well, if it’s Gavin I want to know to avoid you,” James says.</p><p>Lily definitely laughs too loudly.</p><p>“I’m serious,” the other friend says from the opposite side of the table. The purpose of that claim is unclear until he adds, “As in the star, not the emotional state.”</p><p>“No one wants to hear about your emotional state,” says Remus, deadpan, which makes James laugh. “Dorcas was just telling me how you all know each other.”</p><p>“How we all what?” says Lily, wrinkling her nose. Remus has already heard how the girls all know each other. </p><p>But James says, “Dorcas?”</p><p>Dorcas arrives on cue, squeezing in between Mary and Lily. “Oh, hi, James.”</p><p>“How do you know him?” Lily stares at her friend, flummoxed. More importantly, how has Dorcas never mentioned knowing him? <em> Him?  </em></p><p>“Lily, don’t be daft. You know him too. That’s James Potter.” Dorcas sips her drink, as if this is a casual statement one can make and then follow up with a sip of one’s drink.</p><p>“James <em> Potter?” </em> Lily repeats, turning to him.</p><p>“Lily <em> Evans!” </em> he says at the same time, meeting her gaze.</p><p>“Really?” says Sirius with great interest. They both ignore him.</p><p>Now that she’s looking for it, she can see it. James Potter from Year Ten was also Indian and also wore specs, and it seems his messy hair is still around. But— <em> but— </em> he’s gone from your average cute, athletic teenager to...to...to <em> this. </em></p><p>“Wow,” Lily stammers, “um, there’s a coincidence for you.”</p><p>“Crazy odds,” says James, looking a little shell-shocked.</p><p>She’s disappointed — not because she particularly disliked James Potter from Year Ten. No, what bothers her is that this boy, this man, has seen her on one of the worst days of her life, and there’s no chance he’ll continue to look at her the way he was just looking at her, not five minutes ago.</p><p>Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted, et cetera.</p><p>At least, that’s what she’s telling herself while her heart falls to somewhere around her feet.</p><p>“Not so crazy,” says Dorcas blithely. “Since you and Remus went to school together, and then we went to uni with Remus, and we’re at a uni pub.”</p><p>“Ah, the posh school,” Lily says without thinking.</p><p>“The posh school,” James agrees. He hasn’t stopped staring, and neither has she.</p><p><em> Have I fucked it? I probably have. Shit. </em> She spares a mournful glance for his fine-boned fingers. <em> In memoriam, the hands that never touched me. </em></p><p>She doesn’t get more time to consider it, because Nicole who’s in charge of karaoke is calling them by name to the stage. Dorcas gives a happy exclamation and Lily is summarily hauled away from the table — from <em> James, </em> who’s also James Potter — before she can blink.</p><p>“Knew he’d grown up fit,” Dorcas whispers triumphantly.</p><p>“Not for me,” says Mary, “but I’m glad. It’s not every day you catch Lily eye-fucking a bloke at Ned Little’s.” She and Dorcas snicker, their immense delight all the worse for Lily’s mountain despair.</p><p>She groans. “Stop it.”</p><p>“Are you even going to try to deny it?”</p><p>Well, that would be difficult. “Not denying it.” The girls whoop. “What does it matter? He’s going to have the duration of our song to remember all the stupid things I did at Claire Welles’s Elvis and Audrey party—”</p><p>“No one remembers all those things but you,” Dorcas says.</p><p>“—and he’s not going to want to touch me with a ten-foot pole—”</p><p>“Lily bloody Evans,” says Mary sternly. “You are stunning. You are capable. You broke a bully’s nose at fifteen. James Potter would be lucky to touch you with a ten-foot pole.”</p><p>Lily heaves a great sigh. “It’s <em> weird </em>now.”</p><p>“You spent two days shedding Year Ten photos,” says Dorcas. “You’re a changed woman. Just...treat him like Ian the cabbie. A stranger.”</p><p>Lily laughs, incredulous.</p><p>“Ian the cabbie, but you want to shag him,” Mary amends.</p><p>The pep talk is helping. Because she <em> does </em> still want to flirt with James, and she does still want to...to...to see where things go. Except, if this night ends with her in ugly pyjamas on the sofa, moping over what could have been, she’ll be furious at herself. </p><p>“Don’t let me embarrass myself,” Lily says. “If you think he’s not interested, you have to—”</p><p>Dorcas is looking over her shoulder. “He’s checking out your bum.”</p><p>“No, he’s not.” At once Lily tries to look too. Mary and Dorcas hiss in unison; Mary pinches her arm, while Dorcas elbows her side. Wincing in pain, Lily faces firmly forward again. “Ouch, that <em> hurt!” </em></p><p>“Don’t look, you dunce,” Mary says through clenched teeth. “I can confirm that he’s checking out your bum.”</p><p>“I don’t believe you.”</p><p>They’ve arrived by the side of the stage just as the couple who’s on is winding down. Nicole beams at them all, calling hello.</p><p>“Nicole, is the guy in the glasses checking out Lily’s bum? Act natural, please,” Mary says, with absolutely no preamble.</p><p>Nicole laughs, squints. “The one with Remus and that fit guy?”</p><p>“That’s him.”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s checking her out. He’s talking to his friends about her right now.” Nicole waggles her eyebrows suggestively.</p><p>“No, he is <em> not,” </em> says Lily, hope taking root within her nevertheless. “You’d better not be joking.”</p><p>“I never joke about love,” says Nicole seriously.</p><p>Lily laughs despite herself. “OK, Nicole, take it down a notch.”</p><p>All Nicole does is give her a knowing look. Then she’s thrusting a mic into her hand and ushering the three of them on stage. Lily realises she’s forgotten to ask what song they’re singing. </p><p>The stage lights are easy enough on the eyes that she can make out faces in the crowd. As if drawn by a nameless force Lily’s gaze snaps toward James. He smiles that crooked grin again, and she feels herself blushing. Not gone, then. Not gone, not gone at <em> all. </em> The awkward moment was just a little speed bump. And she’s ready to leave it far, far behind.</p><p>A guitar riff starts up. Her mouth catches on before her brain does, thankfully, so she’s not just standing there like an idiot, but Lily doesn’t break eye contact as she sings, <em> “What I like about you—” </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Lily’s on her third strawberry daiquiri. James is at the bar getting refills. The combination of these two facts means her inhibitions are seriously lowered. The moment James leaves the table Lily leans towards his friends, her expression one of grim determination.</p><p>“Any other night I would <em> not </em> be this forward,” she says, “but that’s not a concern right now. Tell me what I need to know about him.”</p><p>Sirius snorts derisively. “You can just ask him, can’t you?”</p><p>Lily turns her attention — and her best, most beseeching look — to Remus. “Does he have a girlfriend?” </p><p>Remus is halfway through exchanging a meaningful glance with Sirius; he just about chokes on air at the question. “What? <em> No.” </em></p><p>“Why’s that so obvious?” says Mary, sensing blood in the water like the shark she is.</p><p>Remus looks trapped. Sirius looks like he’s enjoying this far more than he expected to.</p><p>“It’s just that — he wouldn’t be talking to Lily like that if he did,” says Remus finally.</p><p>“Talking to Lily like what?” Mary says.</p><p>Sirius jumps in, grinning. “Like he wants to—”</p><p>“Please don’t finish that sentence,” says Remus with bone-deep weariness. He looks back at Lily. “No girlfriend.”</p><p>“I’ve got one,” says Dorcas. “Why is he wearing tinsel as a tie?”</p><p>The boys exchange another glance. “That’s just who he is,” Remus says. </p><p>Lily is delighted at the idea. James Potter <em> just is </em> funny and charming and gorgeous. “What does he do?” Lily says.</p><p>“Works in sports management.”</p><p>Dorcas’s eyes are wide. “Which club?”</p><p>“Not the time,” says Mary, swatting her. </p><p>“Does he live here? Here in London, I mean?’ says Lily.</p><p>Remus nods confirmation. “Not round here, but yeah, in the city.”</p><p>“He’s coming back,” says Mary, looking over Lily’s shoulder. “Everyone, find something else to talk about in three — two—”</p><p>“You never said what you do, Sirius,” Dorcas says most obligingly, and they’re talking about what a layabout Sirius is by the time James slides back into place beside Lily.</p><p>He’s drinking something spiced; she can smell it on his breath. There’s a new conversation going on between the other four, but she neither knows nor cares what it’s about. No, the focus is now entirely on him.</p><p>“So, you were saying that you’re a reporter?” he says.</p><p>“Yes, but not the daily headlines sort of thing. I do long-form journalism. Magazine writing, features, you know?”</p><p>He grins. “The kind of thing I read on Sunday morning and quote all week to feel smarter?”</p><p>Lily grins back, shifting a heartbeat closer to him. “Exactly.”</p><p>“Then I owe you for dozens of conversation starters.”</p><p>“Consider it a gift,” she says, although a private, catty part of her hopes he’s never used any of her reporting to strike up a conversation with another girl.</p><p>“Generous of you.”</p><p>“I can be quite giving.”</p><p>“Is that so?” He leans a smidge closer to her.</p><p>Lily gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You’ll have to wait and see.”</p><p>“I can be quite patient,” says James seriously.</p><p>Her breathing hitches. If she wants, she can close the distance between them and just do it. Kiss him. She’s already imagining what it will be like. All heat, enough to make her toes curl; it’s like something’s hooked into her stomach, an insistent tug that demands fulfilment. </p><p>Lily lets out a breath that’s half a gasp, startling herself to attention. It’s too much too soon, the more sensible side of her says. The five-drinks-deep side of her is all right with waiting, but only because anticipation builds tension.</p><p>“Remus says you play football,” Lily says, loudly enough to catch everyone else’s attention. </p><p>James laughs. “God, no, only on the weekends. I work <em> with </em> a football club. Chelsea.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice that she can appreciate — people with passions are so much easier to talk to.</p><p><em> “Ohhh.” </em> She angles an unsubtle glance at his broad shoulders. “Could’ve fooled me.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” says Sirius.</p><p>“Shut up, Sirius,” James says, without missing a beat. His dimples make him look all the more offensively handsome.</p><p>She drains the last of her drink to hide her smile. God, this is fun — the very experience of flirting with someone she <em> wants </em> to flirt with, knowing he is flirting back, it is somehow safe and thrilling all at once. With every knowing look, every secret smile, she’s asking <em> and what now? And what now? </em></p><p><em>Wait and see, </em> he’s saying. Fuck, she wants to. </p><p>“Fancy another?” James points at her drink.</p><p>“I’ll come with you,” says Lily.</p><p>The crowd has grown since they arrived. She leads the way to the bar and he follows a step behind. When a hooting trio of guys rush past, he puts a steadying hand on the small of her back. He doesn’t remove it, not even after they reach the bar and she braces a knee on the high stool, leaning across it to shout her order to Fit Tom.</p><p>“I’ll have what he’s having,” Lily tells him, jerking a thumb at James. </p><p>His hand curls around her hip. Her back arches ever so slightly in response. Lily is one hundred percent not doing this on purpose. </p><p>Fit Tom’s eyes are round and wide as dinner plates. “Fireball and coke?”</p><p>She glances back at James, cocking an eyebrow. This time he was absolutely looking at her bum. He meets her gaze, blinking innocently, but in the curve of his smirk is the smugness of a cat coughing up a canary feather. <em> Oops, </em> she can imagine him saying, <em> you caught me. </em></p><p>“Fireball?” Lily prods, finding her voice.</p><p>He shrugs, self-deprecating, and runs his free hand through his hair. Everything about the gesture is utterly charming. </p><p>“I like the way it tastes,” he says. “Life’s too short to drink pretentious drinks.”</p><p>Life <em> is </em> too short, Lily thinks. “Fireball and coke,” she confirms to Fit Tom, not taking her eyes off James. </p><p>She wobbles off her one-legged perch on the stool, and he reaches out to anchor her again. Both his hands bracket her hips. It’s the most natural thing in the world, his hands on her. Lily hopes everyone in the pub sees it. He lets them linger for far longer than was necessary for her balance. When he lets go it’s all she can do not to actually pout. </p><p>Life is too short. Life is <em>too</em> <em>short.</em> Lily picks up the glass of Fireball and coke on the bar — his, not hers — and takes a sip for courage. </p><p>“I want you to kiss me,” she says. Though the music is loud she knows he’s heard her right, because his eyes widen — and darken, and he visibly swallows. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me all bloody night.”</p><p>His breath comes out in a huff, an incredulous almost-laugh. “God, me too. Me fucking— I mean, <em> I’ve </em> wanted to kiss <em> you </em> all night — and—” He stops.</p><p>“And?” </p><p>“And.” </p><p>There’s some five or six inches between them. Lily rises onto the tips of her toes. “And what else?”</p><p>Again, it passes like a secret between them. She knows. He knows. They each know that the other knows.</p><p>“What else?” Lily murmurs.</p><p><em> “Fuck,” </em> is all he says in response, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment.</p><p>They’re still not touching. There’s probably a hair’s breadth between them, though. Lily’s breathing heavy, like she’s been running. He starts to dip his head closer to her. The entire pub is shouting the words to “American Boy,” drowning out whoever’s actually singing it onstage, but Lily barely hears it. </p><p>Enough waiting. </p><p>And that’s when a stray elbow sails into the space between them, thwacking James right in the face.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Sorry, I know we’re getting to the good part,” begins Shelby apologetically.</p><p>Lily sighs. “What’s happened?”</p><p>Shelby points at the car’s radio, which has been buzzing in the background since she entered the taxi. </p><p>“I’m really fond of this song, is all. Can we, like, pause for a few minutes and just listen?”</p><p>The traffic still hasn’t budged. It’s not as though they’re going to get anywhere anytime soon.</p><p>“Yeah, of course,” says Lily.</p><p>Shelby beams and increases the volume. Mariah Carey’s voice fills the car. Lily sits back in her seat, adjusts the belt where it’s digging into her dress, and waits.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Yippee Year Fucking Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Diary,</i> she wrote, <i>is it odd that I think I like him?</i></p><p><b>music</b>: give me a try (the wombats), little of your love (haim), dancing in the dark (lucy dacus), i wanna take you out in your holiday sweater (pas/cal), just like heaven (the cure)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>Four minutes later, Lily has sung all the accompanying <em> “and IIIIIIIII” </em> bits to Shelby’s lead performance, and they’re both more than a little breathless. Shelby is quite good. Lily tells her so, insisting when she laughs it off. It’s mindless fun, and it very nearly takes her mind off the disaster of the past few nights.</p><p>But then the relentless cheer of “All I Want For Christmas Is You” fades away. Shelby turns the volume down again.</p><p>“So, he’d just been elbowed,” she prompts.</p><p>Lily winces at the memory. For the first time in a long time, recent history is more painful and embarrassing than what happened all those years ago. “You know what, you’ll need more context for what comes next.”</p><p>Shelby nods solemnly. “More Year Ten drama?”</p><p>“More Year Ten drama.”</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 23, 2013</h4><p>“Please, miss,” Lily said, “I swear I’ll be back in one minute.” </p><p>The notebook had been brand new, an early Christmas gift from her grandfather, who would not be coming down to stay this year. She hadn’t even written her <em> name </em> in it. Who was to say it would be there still in January when they came back to school?</p><p>But Miss Carson was cold and entirely unsympathetic to her plight. “It’ll be right there at the end of the holidays, Lily. You can wait. Now sit.”</p><p>Lily reluctantly obeyed, but she might as well have been out of class for all that she listened to a word the teacher said. All she could think of was the notebook. The notebook, the notebook, the <em> notebook, </em> the one that was supposed to be the receptacle for all her most private thoughts next year. </p><p>Some idiot was going to use it for scrap paper, no doubt. </p><p>Lily did not have a chance to run back to the library to search for the notebook until the end of the school day. She made a run for it without pausing to explain to Dorcas and Mary, dashing through the doors just as the rude librarian had been preparing to lock up.</p><p>The librarian, Mrs. Pince, squawked indignantly. “Young woman, why are you running in the corridor? I’ve half a mind to tell your teacher—”</p><p>She paid her no heed, skirting round bookcases and desks until she found the one she’d been reading at. There was no sign of the book.</p><p>In its place was a typed sheet of paper, like a bloody ransom note. She snatched it up.</p><p>
  <em> Looking for your notebook? Think fast. Consider the year William of Orange was crowned King of England, and a call letter that’s the first initial of three English legends. I’ll tell you about two of them: she wrote, he kicks. The last one’s probably the most famous of all, but he’s too close for comfort. </em>
</p><p>Lily gave a little scream of frustration, but continued reading.</p><p>
  <em> The shelf you seek is full of lies. Good luck, and Happy Christmas. </em>
</p><p>She scoffed. She didn’t have the time to play stupid games! How was she supposed to phone Grandda at Christmas and tell him she’d lost his book to some sociopath at school? She turned the paper over.</p><p>
  <em> Cross, aren’t you? I would be. Here’s a hint for you. But it requires nerve, not brains. Pince is probably telling you off right now. Call her a rude word, and see what happens to her. </em>
</p><p>That didn’t sound like a clue at all. Lily looked up to see Pince looming over her, glaring. </p><p>“Did you not hear me call?” the librarian said dangerously. “You need to leave. <em> I </em> need to lock up.”</p><p>Lily was silent a moment, weighing the merits and downsides of taking this anonymous person’s challenge. Pince was horrible. But did she really want to swear at her? That seemed a price too high to pay for the notebook.</p><p>But then Pince seized Lily’s arm in a vice grip. “Out!”</p><p>Lily gasped, trying in vain to free herself. “I’ll — leave if you let <em> go, </em> you cow!”</p><p>Pince did let go. They stared at one another, shocked. And slowly but surely, the librarian flushed an angry red. Combined with her festive maroon cardi, she was quite scarlet.</p><p>Scarlet? A shelf full of lies… Fiction? <em> The Scarlet Letter, A Study in Scarlet— </em> William had been king in the 1600s. Though Lily couldn’t remember when exactly. that no longer mattered. Because she knew well that the Hs on the fiction shelf would number far higher than 1600; it had to be D for Arthur Conan Doyle.</p><p>In the seconds it took Lily to work this out — and the <em> notebook </em> was red too! — Pince’s anger rose to terrifying heights. The smart thing to do now was to run.</p><p>And so Lily ran, darting towards the fiction shelves. She ducked into D — Pince was shouting in her wake — and scanned the spines there. </p><p>“Sherlock, Sherlock, hurry <em>up,”</em> she said, not daring to consider what would happen if the librarian caught her. And there it was: <em>A Study in Scarlet,</em> a label reading J.1689 taped to its spine. The English legend who wrote, Jane sodding Austen. Lily couldn’t guess who the bloke that kicked was, but she didn’t know much about football anyway. Her brand-new notebook was nestled beside it.</p><p>With a sound of triumph, Lily pulled it out and crept to the aisle again. Pince was nowhere in sight. She tiptoed to the library doors and saw that the librarian had continued to lock up — never mind that the school would be empty for holidays, and trapping Lily inside was a ridiculous overreaction to what had happened. </p><p>She legged it right past the librarian — Pince squawked again — and did not stop until she was out of school and round the corner. She doubled over, hands on her knees. That had been very stupid. Very, very stupid. But — and a grin stole across her face — it had been a little bit fun too.</p><p>She saw that the notebook’s ribbon bookmark was tucked into the first few pages. She flipped open the book and saw, horrified, that someone had gone and written in it. So this was the ruthless kidnapper.</p><p><em> Congratulations, you’re either clever or boneheaded. Maybe a bit of both. </em> Lily snorted. <em> Sorry for nicking your notebook. It’s a nice one. I’ll be honest, though, I’ve got very little to do over the holidays, so if you want to devise some similarly humiliating challenge for me, I’m happy to do it. Come on, I know you want your revenge. I’ll throw in a new notebook for good measure. </em></p><p>
  <em> The construction site next to school has a half-finished brick wall. Leave the notebook by the wall before tomorrow (the 24th) if you want to play. </em>
</p><p>Lily was more than a little outraged. It was her notebook! Hers! But...she could not deny the appeal of delivering comeuppance. She dug a pen out of her schoolbag, sat down on the pavement, and began to write.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 24, 2013</h4><p>“And where, exactly, do you have to be on Christmas Eve?” Petunia said, hands on her hips. </p><p>Lily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ve got boys to kiss and drugs to do, Tuney.”</p><p>Petunia looked aghast. Lily’s mother tutted. “Watch your mouth, Lily,” she warned.</p><p>“Sorry, Mum,” Lily said quietly. Glancing back at Petunia, she tried again. “Dorcas wanted me to return something of hers I borrowed.”</p><p>“And does she need it <em> today?” </em></p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>“Well, you’re supposed to help with the baking!”</p><p>“I’ll only be five bl—” a peek at her mother “—five minutes. Get started without me, and I’ll be right back.”</p><p>Petunia scowled, but Lily took that to be permission enough. She was out of the door in a whirlwind of breathless excitement, hardly pausing to put on her coat first. The morning’s snow showers had melted into a soggy mess. Lily stepped around frozen puddles, grateful for the warmth of the chippy when she pushed through the door.</p><p>“Hiya, Eliza,” she called. “Hiya, Kyle.”</p><p>Eliza, a kindly older woman who’d owned the shop for as long as Lily had been alive, waved at her from behind the counter. Kyle the shop boy gave her a mumbled greeting.</p><p> “Back for the notebook?” At Lily’s nod, Eliza beamed. “I’ve got it right here, love.” She held out a slim package wrapped in grease paper. “I covered it so I wouldn’t get my oily fingers all over the pages.”</p><p>“Oh, you needn’t have worried.” After all, the book had already been left at a construction site for God only knew how long. Lily untied the string and unwrapped the parcel, and opened the notebook so quickly that she nearly tore the page.</p><p>
  <em> Eliza’s spiciest curry sauce was no match for me — just ask her. </em>
</p><p>“The curry sauce,” Lily began.</p><p>Eliza smiled. “He asked for thirds.”</p><p><em> He, </em> she noted, the intrigue that came with this fact outweighing her dismay, and kept reading. </p><p>
  <em> I’m almost disappointed. I tried to get the recipe out of her, but she wouldn’t budge. A damn shame. Give me something harder next time, would you?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I’m not a perv. (Thanks for those very politely-worded concerns, by the way.) You’ve pretty obviously sent me to Eliza so she can vet me for you. Go ahead and confirm with her that I’m not a forty-year-old weirdo who somehow snuck into the school library to filch some random kid’s notebook.  </em>
</p><p>Lily humphed.</p><p>
  <em> Your next task won’t involve cursing at a teacher, never fear. But you will, however, need to smash a few snowmen — literally. Enclose a carrot as proof. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As for why I’ve got very little to do, my parents are away, as is my best mate. It’s their millionth honeymoon or something, I didn’t ask for details. (The parents, not the best mate — he’s on holiday too, though.) Big house all to myself. It’s brilliant.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But, you know. Boring. </em>
</p><p>She had scoffed at the taunt and rolled her eyes at the dare, but now she softened. All by himself, on Christmas? It sounded <em> wrong. </em> It sounded...lonely. </p><p>So it was her solemn duty to devise a great dare to keep him occupied. Obviously. </p><p>She looked back at Eliza. “Do you know who he is?”</p><p>“I’m not going to tell you,” Eliza said. “Now, where would the fun be in that?”</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 25, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> I’ll give it to you — that was far more difficult. Do you think old Wrigley sellotapes his hat to his head? I’d bet on it. That thing doesn’t bloody budge. Having to give it back to him afterwards was a nice touch, though. It was harder than stealing it, even. I reckon I should win some kind of award for being able to talk him down. Maybe I can solve international crises now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’ve got a big family too. They’re just more spread out, so I see them a lot less. No siblings either. I don’t know, it might be nice to have more people around. But that brings about its own set of problems, doesn’t it? You can’t really win where family are concerned. Although, you can’t lose either. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Am I making sense? I’ll be honest, I found the brandy in my dad’s study. I need it to keep warm after all the time I spent freezing outside on Wrigley disarmament.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Happy Christmas, Notebook Girl. I hope you and your massive family are having a grand old time. As promised, I’ve included a replacement notebook. Deepest apologies, once again, for nicking this one. Leave it under the stoop of the hatter’s on High Street. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Why the fuck is there still a hatter’s around here? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wait, never mind. Wrigley.</em>
</p><p>Reading under the blanket, flashlight in hand, Lily clapped a hand over her mouth so her laughter would not reach Petunia in the next room. She’d cried a lot that day, but as she reached for a pen to write her own message, she almost forgot what real life had dumped on her.</p><p>Notebook Boy was funny. He was clever, and he was easy to talk to. Lily was fairly certain they were friends now. Her actual friends thought the whole thing was a bit ridiculous — and Lily supposed she could see their point — but Mary and Dorcas both informed her that it was good of her to branch out and try new things. </p><p>Mary had also said she hoped he was cute, so Lily could snog him. Lily had dismissed this, though she had blushed and been grateful Mary couldn’t see her through the phone.</p><p>Anyway, that was what they’d said yesterday. Today they said it would be good to take her mind off...well. Everything. </p><p>If only Petunia hadn’t gone and opened the envelope and found the divorce papers <em> and </em> told Lily. If only they hadn’t spent a teary, confused Christmas Day hearing insufficient explanation from their parents. </p><p>For all that Lily had pitied Notebook Boy and his lonely Christmas, they were not so different after all. At least he’d known his holiday would be spoiled before it had begun. Lily’s own catastrophe had been dropped like a cartoon anvil on her unsuspecting head. </p><p>She put the pen to paper. Telling him was the easiest thing in the world. </p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 26, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> Notebook Girl, I’ll have to be serious for a minute. I’m sorry. That really fucking blows. No two ways about it, no nice turn of phrase to soften it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But — you knew there was a ‘but’ coming, yeah? — I don’t think that your parents splitting means that all the good moments you had in the past don’t matter anymore. You still are family by way of memory and blood. Shit happens sometimes. That’s all.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I guess that’s easy for me to say and much harder for you to accept. I guess only time helps there. It seems to me, though, that you’re an optimist. (As cynical as that last entry was…) And optimists bounce back. Takes one to know one.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I did leave off a dare in my last entry on purpose. I thought you deserved a break for Christmas. But I’ll happily give you two this round...if you dare to accept.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So, Bond, go to the below address at teatime today. Don’t look it up beforehand! And dress nicely.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As for the second dare, keep writing. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 27, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> Des and Larry and all the others were very grateful for your company too. I — and they! — take issue with you calling that dare “a transparent attempt to shove love in your face.” You did enjoy it, didn’t you? So bottom line: I was right.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I was also told you were snooping around, asking questions about who I am. Cheating, Notebook Girl. Very underhand of you. Anyway, I’ve already given you a clue about myself. Not my fault if you don’t pick up what I’m putting down.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Here’s a bauble from Hamleys. Before you get up in arms about it, it’s not stolen goods. It is made of paper and was on a Christmas tree. I did photobomb a family — blended in quite well, I think — but for obvious reasons you can’t see the photo. (Props to the stranger who thought it was funny and agreed to help.) Maybe you’ll see it someday in the distant, distant future. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Very interesting that you are born in January. There are probably loads of revealing details about you in your star chart that you’ve now given to me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fingers crossed it’s not too soon to get a gift from each of your parents. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> OK, that came out badly. But you know what I mean. From what I understand, that’s the best part about so-called broken homes. Twice the pampering. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyway, in the interest of shoving more love in your face — invitation attached. Go throw some grains of rice or whatever (haven’t been to a wedding in forever, sorry. What do people do there again? Some kind of vow thing?). Eat some cake for me. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 29, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> I didn’t make you do anything! And no, I am not related to bride or groom. Try harder, Notebook Girl.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My parents’ Christmas gifts have arrived. Shipping delays, for which Mum spent about an hour apologising on the phone. I don’t mind, though I repaid them by opening all the gifts like the brat I am. In the process I discovered a box of liqueur-filled chocolates, of which I’ve eaten a lot. I believe the scientific term is a fuckload. If I’m ill I will tell my parents it was from grief. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In the interest of sharing and caring, &amp;c., here are some for you. We can be ill together! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That was a joke. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Chug some eggnog when you try it, by the way. Surprisingly good combination. (I made my own eggnog, so stay tuned on the salmonella front.) </em>
</p><p>Lily could not keep the smile from her face as she read on — the dare involved a top-secret flash mob, apparently. Before she wrote her reply, she pulled the other notebook from her nightstand. It had taken the place of her diary, but with so much time spent writing to Notebook Boy she’d found that it was difficult to squeeze out more words. She was telling <em> him </em> everything she wanted to write about anyway.</p><p>Hesitating, she uncapped her pen. <em> Diary, </em> she wrote, <em> is it odd that I think I like him? </em></p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2013</h4><p>“I don’t know, Lily.” Dorcas sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t you want to meet him in...a less public setting?”</p><p>Lily fidgeted with the tassels on her rug. “I don’t know. That’s a lot of pressure, if it’s one-on-one.”</p><p>“It’s a lot of pressure either way,” said Mary, swivelling around in Lily’s desk chair.</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>Mary shrugged. “You know what I mean. You’ve built up this boy in your head, and you’ve not exactly had the easiest week, and if it doesn’t go how you expect it to—”</p><p>“I don’t know anything about who he is in real life,” Lily protested. “How would I have expectations?”</p><p>“You always have expectations. You expect him to be funny and clever, and you expect him to not be disappointed by you.”</p><p>Mary wasn’t making any <em> sense. </em> Lily’s frown physically pained her. “Why would he be disappointed by me?”</p><p>“Mare,” Dorcas said, a warning.</p><p>“It’s not that you’re disappointing,” Mary said, waving her hands in a firm <em> no. </em> “You’re my best friend. But — you might not be what <em> he </em> expects either. And that’s okay, so long as you both go into it knowing that.”</p><p>Lily chewed her bottom lip, considering. Maybe Mary was right. Her cousin Heidi had begun online dating last year, and according to Petunia she had been catfished twenty-three times. (If Petunia could be believed on this.) </p><p>Not that Lily thought she was being catfished. It sounded like naïveté when she said it aloud, but — the puzzle pieces she’d assembled to form a silhouette of his character, the tidbits about his family, they were too specific to be invented. Even if he was doing it for a laugh — an uncomfortable possibility — some part of him had been honest. She was positive of that.</p><p>“It’s not like,” she began, blushing furiously. “It’s not like I’ll meet him and expect him to propose <em> marriage. </em> I only — I want to get to know him, <em> not </em> through a notebook.”</p><p>Dorcas and Mary exchanged looks.</p><p>“If you think it’s a good idea,” Dorcas said kindly, “we’ll be there with you in case anything goes wrong. Which it won’t, I’m sure.”</p><p>Lily shot her a quick, grateful smile. “Anyway, he might not want to meet. I’m supposed to wait for his message.”</p><p>Mary glanced at her watch. “It’s half-eleven. That’s the time you gave him, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Then let’s go.”</p><p>The girls put on their coats and boots, grabbing umbrellas — Doris Evans told them not to be out long, lest they catch cold — and splashing into the rainy morning. </p><p>“I hope it’s not wet,” said Lily, mostly to herself. Why hadn’t she thought to check the weather before directing him to leave the notebook beneath the bookshop stoop? </p><p>But when they arrived at the bookshop, which was closed for the holiday, and Lily knelt to move the top stone from the stoop, the notebook was safely inside and perfectly dry. She opened it to the ribbon bookmark, heart pounding.</p><p>
  <em> Notebook Girl, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> OK, I’m in. Masks off at Claire Welles’s. Half past ten, bring the notebook to swap in her back garden. And then I have to tell you something.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know, that’s the worst sentence in the English language. But I don’t really want to write it down. You’ll have to wait. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You’re probably fuming at me right now. Sorry, ha. Last dare: do something you normally wouldn’t at the party. Nice and vague so you get your leeway. See you there. </em>
</p><p>Dorcas and Mary were reading over her shoulder. All three girls straightened when they’d finished, their umbrella shield keeping all but a few drops from splattering across the notebook. Lily shut it and tucked it under her arm.</p><p>“Wow,” said Dorcas, “maybe <em> he </em> fancies <em> you.” </em></p><p>Lily could tell that Mary was about to say something about fancying an idea of her and not <em> her. </em> But when her friend spoke, all she said was, “You know, Lily, I reckon we could look at all the notes and figure out who he is.”</p><p>This unexpected optimism made Lily’s heart ever lighter. She laughed, shaking her head.</p><p>“What does it matter, Mare? I’m going to <em> see </em> him anyway.”</p><p>“What’re you going to do for the dare?” said Dorcas.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure it’ll come to me.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>That evening, permission secured to attend Claire’s party and costume assembled from borrowed items, Lily sat alone in her room. Her father had insisted she leave from home instead of getting ready at Mary’s — something about not wanting them to drink beforehand. Lily reckoned he was just trying to get in some protective father behaviour before he left for good.</p><p>That sort of bitterness felt entirely out of place this night, though. She smiled at her Audrey clothes, at the makeup she’d laid out, and picked up the red notebook instead. She had time for one last entry. </p><p><em> Dear Notebook Boy, </em> she wrote, <em> sometimes I feel so alone, staring up at the stars and thinking how small and insignificant we are. But then I remember that we’ve become friends in such a short time, and it makes me a little sappy. (Indulge me a moment.) I hadn’t realised, I think, how easy it is to be lonely even when you’re not alone. I rarely am alone the way you are right now, with your big house all to yourself. </em></p><p>
  <em> But it’s hard for me to tell people how I feel. That’s its own sort of loneliness.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know you’ll probably see me before you read this, but I wanted to get it off my chest before the new year. Catharsis, right? This has been a weird Christmas for me. But you made it...well, not less weird, I’ll be honest, but a little easier.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My friend says I shouldn’t have expectations of you, that we’ll be disappointed when we see each other. Can we promise not to be? Can we promise to be friends?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Honestly, I’m not nervous about meeting you or hearing what you’ve got to say. It can’t be any more revealing than anything else we’ve said to each other. But I do have this funny feeling that something will go wrong. Newfound cynicism at work, I suppose. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m rambling at this point, and I ought to be getting ready. I’ll see you soon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lily Evans </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>Shelby winces. “Shouldn’t have signed it.”</p><p>Lily sighs. “Well, I know that <em> now. </em> I knew that as soon as things went wrong. I can’t explain why, for a perfectly smart, sensible fifteen-year-old girl, I did something so downright idiotic.”</p><p>Shelby pats her shoulder. “Young love is hard on anyone.”</p><p>Six years’ worth of instinct would have her scoff and say it wasn’t young love. That it was silly romantic notions that too much Austen and rom-coms put in a girl’s head, to horrible consequences. That she punched a boy and moved on that night, drowning the girl she once was in Claire Welles’s fountain.</p><p>She’s not so sure anymore. No matter the letters and exam papers she’s thrown out, she’s not so sure she’s lost that crazy, hopeful Lily. When she realised it those few nights before, she was fucking terrified.</p><p>Now she’s...a little bit unmoored. Unsettled. She <em> hates </em> feeling unsettled. But she can fix things. Or, she can try to. Sitting there in New Year’s Eve traffic, with a cabbie she met thirty minutes ago, Lily remembers what it was like to find the first clue and flee from the librarian. Raw, exciting possibility. </p><p>“I reckon I can see where this is going now,” Shelby says morosely.</p><p>“Yeah, well,” says Lily, <em> “I </em> fucking couldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Saint Fucking Nosebleed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“That’s got to be the single most inventive way to say you’re going to have sex.”</p><p><b>music</b>: american boy (estelle &amp; kanye west), like whoa (aly &amp; aj, yes i stand by it), experience (victoria monet &amp; khalid), love language (ariana grande), friday i'm in love (phoebe bridgers)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 29, 2019</h4><p>Lily shrieks. “Watch where you’re going, wanker! Stop flailing like it’s your mum’s house!”</p><p>Her insults are swallowed up by “American Boy,” but James stops mid-groan to laugh — and then groan again. She glances back at him. He’s got his head tipped back, fingers held tentatively to the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“God, are you all right?”</p><p>“Been better,” he says thickly.</p><p>“Is it bleeding?”</p><p>Tom helpfully appears and holds out a wad of tissues, plus a bag filled with ice. Lily could kiss him. She presses both into James’s hands, and he immediately applies both to his nose.</p><p>“Is it bleeding?” she asks again. She’s embarrassed, she’s angry, she feels awful for him — and she’s also annoyed as <em> arse </em> because she was just about to <em> snog </em> him, but some baboon of the first order just had to go and spoil everything— “I can take you to a doctor—”</p><p>“Lily, it’s fine, I’m sure it’s not even bleeding.” He straightens, blinking, and removes the napkins from his nose. At once they both notice the blood speckling the tissues. One droplet lands on the edge of Lily’s cream-coloured skirt, forming a perfect red circle. They both freeze. </p><p>Then, slowly, James lifts the tissue back to his face. “OK,” he says, slowly and calmly, “this is fucking awful.”</p><p>Despite everything, she dissolves into helpless laughter. The skirt is one of her nicest, and will require immediate attention if she wants to be rid of the stain. But it’s all so — absurd.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Lily gasps, “I’m so sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it must hurt a lot—”</p><p>“S’fine, I’m five drinks in. Can’t even feel it.” </p><p>“I don’t believe that.”</p><p>“Honest. <em> I’m </em> sorry about your skirt. I’ll pay for the dry-clean—”</p><p>“No, don’t worry about it, your nose is bloody broken and—”</p><p>“It’s not broken. I’ve broken it before, that feels much worse.” He meets her gaze. “And I <em> am </em> worrying about it. It’s a really, really nice skirt. I mean, <em> really </em> nice.”</p><p>And then Lily has to laugh again. Because someone’s just elbowed him in the face, and he’s icing his bleeding nose (literally), and he’s still flirting with her. </p><p>“I think you should get it looked at,” she says.</p><p>“I don’t need it, promise. I’ll go to the loo and get cleaned up and I’ll be right as rain.”</p><p>“Right. I should probably—” She looks down at her skirt with its telltale red spot. Maybe Fit Tom will give her hydrogen peroxide.</p><p>James sighs. “Fuck, I’m an idiot.”</p><p>She gives him a stern look. “You didn’t elbow your own face, James.”</p><p>“Well, yeah, but—”</p><p>
  <em> “James.” </em>
</p><p>He falls silent for a moment. “What d’you need to put on it?”</p><p>“Er...bleach, then I’ll have to handwash cold, then I’ll have to wash in warm water.” She’s impressed at her own memory there; her mother has very effectively drilled domestic tips into her. </p><p>“You can’t do that here,” James points out.</p><p>“No,” she agrees. “I can’t.”</p><p>If he’s trying to tell her something, she’s not quite getting it. But she’s having an idea of her own.</p><p>“Come on, you can come back to my flat and we’ll get you something for the—” she gestures at his face “—and then I can fix my skirt. Since you’re <em> so </em> concerned about it.”</p><p>“I am.” He hesitates. “This isn’t, like, a weird backdoor way to get an invitation to your place. In case you’re thinking that.”</p><p>“I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t, but now I’m a bit worried.” She grins to show she’s teasing. </p><p>He looks a little relieved, but some concern remains. “Seriously, you don’t have to take me anywhere.” </p><p>Abruptly she remembers that she really, really wanted to. And she still really, really wants to. Which is horrible, because he’s in pain. What is <em> wrong </em> with her?</p><p>“I know,” Lily says quickly, before any evidence of her train of thought becomes visible and he thinks she’s insane. “I know, but I want to.” </p><p>And...there it is. Against her best efforts she sounds like a maiden requesting ravishment, breathless and low.</p><p>He looks like he’s trying very hard to keep a straight face. “Good. Alright, then. Your place.”</p><p>“I’ll tell everyone, you wash up?”</p><p>They agree on this plan. She snags the Fireball and coke that Tom’s already poured for her. Then she slips through the crowd back towards the table, and it takes every bit of her restraint not to look over her shoulder.</p><p>“Some prick elbowed James in the face,” Lily announces to the other four, “so we’re going to head back and get him ice and everything, make sure he doesn’t need urgent care.” She slides the glass across the table’s surface towards her friends. “Here, one of you can have this.”</p><p>For a moment none of them says anything.</p><p>Then Dorcas says, “That’s got to be the single most inventive way to say you’re going to have sex.”</p><p>It doesn’t help that this makes Lily blush. “Don’t be daft. I’m serious, his nose was bleeding. He’s gone to clean it up right now.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure,” says Sirius. “Remus and I can take him back, then.”</p><p>“We live closer to here than Remus does,” Lily says. It’s not an excuse, and she doesn’t deliver it too quickly, but they all <em> still </em> look at her like she’s made some great admission. “Fucking stop it. Look, there’s blood on my skirt.”</p><p>Mary and Dorcas squint at the spot she’s pointing at.</p><p>“Right. Yeah. I see it,” Mary says.</p><p>“That makes it sound like you don’t see it, and you’re saying so sarcastically,” says Lily.</p><p>Mary’s suppressing a smile. “I’ve just said I can see it, Lily. I can totally see it.”</p><p>“You’re doing it again! We’ll even come back if he’s feeling up to it.” She’s not sure where <em> that </em> comes from, since she has no intention of leaving if James is feeling all right. Everyone else looks as though they believe her claim just as much as she does.</p><p>James comes round with the makeshift ice pack still pressed to his face. Lily tries not to look too triumphant. </p><p>“It’s fine,” James says, “it’s not that bad, and I’ll live.”</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you withhold dramatics at a prime opportunity like this,” says Remus.</p><p>“Because it’s <em> fine.” </em></p><p>There’s no evidence of blood on his face, and the bleeding seems to have stopped. He’s been rid of the napkin, anyway. </p><p>“Does it hurt?” says Dorcas. “Are you sure you don’t need to—”</p><p>“We’ll handle it,” Lily says, seizing him by the arm. </p><p>“Can I have a minute?” Dorcas beckons her over with a finger. Lily detaches herself from James and steps away from the table with her friend. “You’re good, yeah?”</p><p>“What? Yes. I’m fine,” says Lily.</p><p>“You’re OK going home with him?”</p><p>“I’m not, like, capital G, capital H, <em> Going Home </em> with him—”</p><p>“Lily, ohmygood<em>ness. </em> Here, take my phone.” Dorcas presses it into her hands.</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“Yours is wonky and I want you to have a functioning phone so you can call us if you have to.”</p><p>“But what about you?”</p><p>“I’ve got Mary.”</p><p>They both glance at Mary, who is thus far showing ambiguous interest in Sirius. </p><p>“What if she goes home with Fit Tom? Or Sirius?”</p><p>“Then I’ve got Remus.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p><em> “Lily.” </em> Dorcas says with fading patience, “just take it and go, would you? And have <em> fun.” </em></p><p>She hesitates again, then stows it away in her purse. “Well, alright—”</p><p>Dorcas smiles and pulls her back to the table.</p><p>“Ready?” James says.</p><p>“Yeah, ready.” She backs away — the other four return to talking — and takes him by the arm again. “Wouldn’t want to lose you in the crowd,” she explains.</p><p>His hand’s in the way of his smile, but she can see his dimples flashing. “No, we wouldn’t want that.”</p><p>They push their way out of Ned Little’s. At some point the arm-holding becomes hand-holding, though Lily isn’t sure who started it. His fingers are cold from the ice, but she doesn’t let go. </p><p>The night air makes them both suck in bracing breaths. Lily fastens her coat securely round her waist, which still leaves her legs woefully uncovered. Such is the price of beauty, or whatever.</p><p>James has lifted the ice from his nose, grimacing, and searches his pockets. “You must be freezing,” he says.</p><p>She is indeed shifting from one foot to the other, but it’s not the coldest she’s ever been. The drinks, still buzzing in her system, are helping a great deal. “No, it’s alright.”</p><p>“We should’ve called an Uber before we left—”</p><p>“Really, it’s fine—”</p><p>He struggles with his phone for a minute before she holds out a hand. Without another word he gives it to her.</p><p>Lily brings the screen up to her face, squinting. She has never <em> had </em> Uber, but she taught her grandfather how to use it, so she’s familiar with how it works. Then on impulse she pulls up his contacts and adds herself. She’s pretty sure he’s too busy icing his face to realise.</p><p>She holds the phone out to him. “Ali will be here in two minutes.”</p><p>“Excellent,” says James.</p><p>She smiles, a puff of steam escaping her lips. She’s not sure what compels her to say it, but before she can reconsider she’s telling him, “I have a feeling we’re a bad combination.”</p><p>His brows rise. “Yeah?”</p><p>“You, me, parties. Noses tend to bleed.”</p><p>He laughs. “God, what a night <em> that </em> was. Fucking — what was his name? Mulciber?”</p><p>Lily nods, not trusting herself to say anything sensible next.</p><p>“Bloody hell. It was incredible.” (She’s trying not to glow.) </p><p>“I’m a changed person,” she informs him.</p><p>“Are you really?” He sounds sceptical, or maybe he’s only joking.</p><p>Either way, Lily nods firmly. “I don’t throw punches as a means of conflict resolution anymore.”</p><p>He grins. “Would you have punched the guy that elbowed me?”</p><p>She shrugs. “But that’d be defending your honour. You can forgive that.”</p><p>“I certainly would,” James says. A pause— “You know what I can never forget about that party?”</p><p>She tenses. “What?”</p><p>“Claire’s fountain. What the hell was that thing? The <em> lights, </em> Jesus.” James shivers. “Without a doubt the ugliest thing we all saw that night, Avery included.”</p><p>Oh, thank God. “Not to your taste, was it?” Lily teases.</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“They still have it.”</p><p>“Christ.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re too posh for Claire Welles’s fountain.”</p><p>“Who said anything about <em> posh?!” </em></p><p>“Come on, you thought it was tacky.”</p><p>“Anyone with <em> eyes </em> thought it was tacky,” James says with feeling. </p><p>So they’re going to avoid the whole matter of the notebook. Lily’s fine with that. More than fine; she’s ecstatic about it. Maybe Dorcas is right and he doesn’t even remember.</p><p>The conversation meanders in a different direction, to her relief. When the Uber arrives they slide in the back together. She unzips her coat — the heat blasts over them — and sighs as feeling returns to her legs. He shifts in his seat and his thigh presses against hers, almost casually enough to be an accident. Almost. </p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 30, 2019</h4><p>“—just can’t believe Greg dumped Amber,” says Ali, “by text. I always knew he was shady.”</p><p>Lily nods. “Who does he think he is, anyway? Has he <em> seen </em> Amber? Has he <em> seen </em> himself?”</p><p>“Too right, mate. Too fuckin’ right.”</p><p>“Honestly, all the <em> Love Island </em> white guys with the, you know, the haircut, short on the sides and long on the top — it’s like, diversify your style a little.”</p><p>Ali nods. “That show’s fuckboy central. I mean, that’s why we watch, and everything. Still. If you saw Greg on the street you’d be like, <em> no, thank you.” </em></p><p>“What’s wrong with Greg’s haircut?” James asks.</p><p>“It’s boring,” Lily says. They are now pressed together on one side, knee to hip, and it’s a little bit like being set on fire. She’s pretty sure that’s why she’s talking to Ali the Uber driver with such enthusiasm. </p><p>If she doesn’t, she’ll end up snogging James Potter in this car, right now.</p><p>“Boring?” James repeats.</p><p>“Yeah, boring.” She turns to face him, resting her elbow on the top of the seat so her hand falls — ever so casually — onto his shoulder. His brows are steadily rising. She traces the nape of his neck. “I like hair with a little personality.” </p><p>She threads her fingers through his hair. His next exhale is shaky; she watches the flutter of his lashes. Ali is mercifully silent.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lily bumps the door to the flat open with her hip, flicking on the hall light. “Shoes off, please. Kitchen’s to the left, ice is in the fridge. Will you be alright while I deal with this?” She gestures at her skirt.</p><p>“Yeah, go on.”</p><p>They part ways — Lily is trying not to work herself into a frenzy thinking about the empty flat, and James in it, and James in <em> her </em> empty flat, and she and James having the empty flat all to themselves — and she pauses in her bedroom to snag another skirt. She hesitates a moment, considering the tornado-hit state of said bedroom. Then, with a nervous backward glance, she picks up all the discarded pieces of clothing and shoves them into her dresser, and remakes the bed. She cracks the window open for fresh air.</p><p>Not that they’ll need it. Not that they’re coming in here. </p><p>Next she heads to the loo. She’s not perfectly selfless and saintly, so she considers (briefly, like a fever dream) washing the bloodied skirt and waltzing back into the kitchen in just the lacy bodysuit. But then she immediately discards that idea. Lily scrubs out the stain and leaves the skirt to soak, putting on its replacement — which is still a nice skirt, even if it was her second choice for tonight — and examining herself in the mirror. </p><p>Her makeup has stayed mostly intact, but she touches it up anyway, daubing on a fresh coat of lip gloss. That’s the most important bit, anyway.</p><p>For her overall look, that is. Not for any other reason.</p><p>Satisfied with the result, Lily pads into the kitchen. James is leaning against the counter, a fresh bag of ice in hand. He straightens when she walks in.</p><p>“Nice skirt,” he tells her.</p><p>“As nice as the other one?”</p><p>James scans her up and down; she hopes the dim, flickering kitchen light isn’t as hideous in his eyes as it has been every single time she’s tried to take a photo there. </p><p>“I think I’ll need a closer look,” he says.</p><p>OK, so it’s not just her. She’s not being a monster, thinking how she wants to jump his bones when he’s just been hurt. Either he’s telling the truth and it really doesn’t hurt that badly, or they’re both incredibly stupid.</p><p>Just to be sure, Lily moves towards him. “Are you sure you’re alright? I’m sorry your night’s ruined.”</p><p>“Not ruined,” he says, and it sounds like a promise. He moves the ice away from his nose. “Is it swollen?”</p><p>She frowns. “Not that I can tell, but you shouldn’t take my word for it.” She <em> has </em> spent the past few hours staring at his face and memorising its every quirk, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Do you want something for the pain—?”</p><p>“Isn’t it bad to mix drinks and painkillers?” he says doubtfully.</p><p>“Oh. Yes.”</p><p>“Do you have anything to drink, then? I’ve already done that, so…” </p><p>She brightens. “Probably.” She heads to the fridge. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him open his mouth to say something. Lily stops with one hand on the fridge door. “What?”</p><p>“What?” James says.</p><p>“You were going to say something.”</p><p>“No, nothing.”</p><p>The fridge only contains half-full bottles of Mary’s gross wine. Lily steps out into the sitting room, rummaging through the cart that serves as their liquor cabinet, and returns with a bottle of tequila.</p><p>She holds it up to him. “Happy New Year in advance?” </p><p>James laughs. “I’ll do a shot if you will.”</p><p>She happily will. The pleasant warmth of her five drinks has faded, and she knows she won’t be pushing her limits if she adds to it. Lily rummages in the fridge again and produces a lime; she directs him to the cupboard above the hob and he gets out the salt. </p><p>“I haven’t done this the proper way in a while,” James says as she slices the lime into quarters.</p><p>“The proper way?” says Lily lightly. “You mean body shots?” </p><p>He gapes at her for a second before choking out a laugh. “Christ. No, with the salt and the lime.”</p><p>She scoffs. “Life’s too short to drink tequila the wrong way.”</p><p>She raids the girls’ shot glass collection, picking out Disneyland Paris for herself and handing him a plaid-patterned one from Aberdeen. He pours out the drink. </p><p>“What’re we drinking to?” he asks.</p><p>“The new year? Or is that overdone?” She’d laugh at the cheesiness of it, normally, but she doesn’t care right now. She’s wide-open to possibility.</p><p>“I don’t think so.”</p><p>Lily shakes out the salt into a bowl and sticks a spoon in it, hopping up onto the kitchen counter. He follows, brushing up against her bare knees. She nudges a wedge of lime towards him on the cutting board. </p><p>“Walk me through it,” James says.</p><p>“But we’re supposed to do it together!” </p><p>“Just tell me, then.”</p><p>“Salt, tequila, lime,” Lily recites, the mantra of every uni party featuring Mary. “The trick with the salt is, you lick first—” she motions as if to lick her thumb; he’s watching very closely “—then sprinkle it on so it sticks. Then you lick off the salt, do the shot, bite into the lime.”</p><p>“You’re a good teacher.” </p><p>His eyes are hazel, she notices. His pupils are blown wide. </p><p>“You’re an attentive student,” she breathes.</p><p>“What are you doing for New Year’s?”</p><p>Lily blinks at this sudden change of subject, drawing back a little. “We don’t have plans yet, I don’t think.”</p><p>“Brilliant. Someone I know’s throwing a party, and he’s fucking insufferable so I was going to sit at home and marathon <em> Austin Powers </em> with my mates but — you should come. Bring Dorcas and Mary too.” He says all of this in a rush, the words tumbling out one after the other. </p><p>“Not the greatest sales pitch,” she says, smiling.</p><p>“You’d have me,” James says, “and I want you to come.”</p><p>Lily realises she has her legs crossed very, very tightly. She can feel the <em> zing </em> between them. He’s got that crooked grin on again, like he knows exactly what effect he has on her, and Lily’s always thought cocky equals infuriating but this is infuriating in <em> such </em> a good way. No more waiting. No more <em> fucking </em> waiting.</p><p>“Yeah,” says Lily, steadying her voice with effort, “yeah, I’ll come. But where—”</p><p>“I’ll text you.”</p><p>She tries to look coy. “But—”</p><p>“I saw you put your number in my phone,” James says. And before she can dwell on that, he adds, “Shot?”</p><p>“Shot,” she agrees, but all she can think is she’s so <em> gone. </em> </p><p>She licks her thumb, sprinkles salt onto it, and picks up her glass. He does the same, hand balanced out gingerly so as not to spill any.</p><p>“To the new year?” James says.</p><p>“And the new us,” says Lily.</p><p>He smiles. They clink the glasses together, Disneyland Paris and Aberdeen, and in quick succession Lily tastes salt, burn, sharp lime. She slides the wedge out from between her teeth, huffing out a laugh at his grimace.</p><p>“You’ve got—” She gestures to the side of her mouth.</p><p>“Blood?” says James, dismayed.</p><p>She laughs again. “No, just salt. Here—” She brushes it away with her thumb, lets her hand linger. </p><p>“Lily,” he says, his voice rough, <em> “Lily.” </em></p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Can I—”</p><p>Finally. <em> “Yes.” </em> It’s all she can do not to add <em> please. </em> </p><p>He bends to meet her, kissing the corner of her mouth first. Her eyes fall shut. She’s all sensation — there’s no time or place anymore, just the slide of his hand up her thigh, slowly, slowly, slowly. Just the press of his lips against her throat. Just the hot tip of his tongue in the dip between her collarbones. </p><p>“James,” she says, tangling her fingers in his hair, “you’re not kissing me.”</p><p>“I am,” he says into the slope of her shoulder, nudging the strap of her top aside.</p><p>“Kiss me up here.”</p><p>His laugh is a huff of warm breath. “I have to tell you something first.”</p><p>“Well, hurry it up, then.”</p><p>“I said—” a kiss to her jaw “—I’ve wanted to kiss you—” a kiss to her cheek, feather-light “—all night.”</p><p>“I remember that.” Her voice comes out strangled.</p><p>“That wasn’t, strictly speaking, true.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>His hand dips beneath her skirt, toying with the edge of her knickers. “No.” He pulls away to look at her. “I’ve wanted to fuck you, all night.”</p><p>Her heart stutters; the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “All night?”</p><p>He nods. “Since the moment you said my name.”</p><p>Her whole body is tight with anticipation, thrumming with it. “Then do it.” She leans a little closer, dizzy with the nearness of him but desperately wanting more.</p><p>“You’re sure you want to? Absolutely sure?”</p><p>Lily fists her hands in his shirt and tries to pull him closer. “I’m really, really sure.”</p><p>“Because we’re both—”</p><p>She puts a finger to his lips, “I can recite the alphabet backwards or tell you the square root of 256 or say that the first bloody thing I thought of when I saw you was how good you’d look on top of me. So, James. Fuck me. Please.”</p><p>She’s not sure if it’s the <em> please </em> that does it or his name, but he makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, and then he’s meeting her halfway, lips hot against hers. It’s everything, everything, and Lily wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, knotting one hand in his stupid fucking tinsel tie. This must be what it feels like to be high; every centimetre of her skin hums, the rush of blood in her ears overwhelms.</p><p>“Bedroom,” she gasps.</p><p>“Patience,” is all he says in response.</p><p>“Fuck patience.”</p><p>He laughs into her mouth, and she loves the feeling of it. </p><p>“Bedroom, or right here,” says Lily. She lets go of him to grope for her skirt’s zipper.</p><p>“No—” James catches her wrists, holds them firmly away, entwines their fingers together. “Not yet.”</p><p>She whines — whines! Who is she! — and he laughs again. <em> God, </em> Lily is so sick with wanting, which is ridiculous because she’s literally kissing him. But she wants more, the sheer relief of finally touching him warring with the frustration of <em> not enough, not enough. </em> She’s about to complain again when he picks her up off the counter and sets her on her — unsteady — feet.</p><p>“Come on,” he says, like it wasn’t <em> him </em> delaying things this whole time.</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Hang on,” Shelby says, eyes wide. “Hang on, how <em> detailed </em> is this going to get?”</p><p>Lily snorts, grateful for the break. Her voice is starting to get hoarse. Shelby’s broken out her stash of water bottles.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m the person telling a stranger about her love life, and even I draw the line at sex.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 30, 2019</h4><p>Lily humphs, still holding onto his hand, and leads him to her room. The window she opened earlier is letting in too much cold air now; she separates from James long enough to shut it. When she turns around he’s closed the door, and he’s watching her.</p><p>Even the faint crescent moon wants him. The weak light traces silvery lines along the planes of his face, the perfect cupid’s bow of his mouth. If Lily believed in fate or holiday miracles, she would think of them now. </p><p>He’s smiling at her still, but not like before — softer, fonder. Too fond, for someone who hasn’t seen her in six years and didn’t really know her back then either. Her heart thumps against her ribs.</p><p>“Come here,” she whispers.</p><p>They meet, slow and deliberate, in the middle. All the rushed fumbling from the kitchen has been left behind. His arms slide around her waist; she cradles his face between her hands. This kiss is sweet, soft, lingering like a thumbprint of light behind closed eyes. Lily sighs when they come up for air.</p><p>“There’s something else,” James murmurs, his lips brushing the skin under her ear.</p><p>“Not now.” Lily isn’t sure why she doesn’t want to talk — but it’s not just impatience now. There’s something in his voice, something in his gaze, that makes her skittish.</p><p>He takes a half-step back, his hands still on her hips. “I think it has to be now.”</p><p>“James,” she begins, but he’s not listening.</p><p>“It’s not fair to— It just feels <em> wrong, </em> not telling you.”</p><p>“James—”</p><p>“Lily.” His gaze is so heartbreakingly earnest. “You know it was me. Don’t you?”</p><p>“What was you?” She still doesn’t know what he means, but she’s rejecting it anyway, shaking her head.</p><p>“The notebook,” he says, and she sucks in a sharp breath.</p><p>“That’s not funny.” Her voice is unrecognisable: hard, flinty, tight with old pain.</p><p>He lets go of her now, frowning a little. “I’m not <em> joking. </em> It was me writing to you in the notebook.”</p><p>Lily steps back too, raking a hand through her hair. “That’s — not possible.” She seizes upon the argument she made to Dorcas, three days or an eternity ago. “The birthday card, Eliza gave me a birthday card <em> on </em> my birthday—”</p><p>“I got the card the day you told me when your birthday was,” James says, with frustrating patience. “I told her when to give it to you. And with the move — I didn’t exactly get a chance to tell her <em> not </em> to.”</p><p>“Y-You moved.”</p><p>“Yeah. That’s what I was planning to tell you, that day at the party.”</p><p>It makes sense. <em> Too </em> much sense. Oh, God, it makes sense! “Then — you knew the whole time!” Lily cried. “With Mulciber, and when everyone was—”</p><p>“Come off it, I suspected long before that.”</p><p>Her mouth falls open. “What the fuck?”</p><p>At last James starts to look uncomfortable. “Seriously? Not a week went by in school without your essays being read aloud in English class. It’s not like every person at school wrote like you did.”</p><p>“This is ridiculous,” Lily breathes. “It’s crazy. So this—” she gestures between them “—is some weird, fucked-up way to fix a six-year-old maybe, is it?”</p><p>“Christ, no!”</p><p>“What am I supposed to think, then?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” He throws his hands up. “That I told you about it, and if I <em> wanted </em> to do something like that — which I fucking <em> wouldn’t </em> — then I could’ve just let what was going to happen run its course?”</p><p>Lily scoffs. “Excuse me for feeling — uncomfortable that you’ve got this idealised version of me in your head from <em> Year bloody Ten—” </em></p><p>“Don’t put words in my mouth. I never said anything about idealised— I’m not sitting around pining!”</p><p>“OK,” Lily says slowly, “OK, so, tell me you don’t think of it as a what-if. Go on.”</p><p>James clenches his jaw, looks away. That’s all the answer she needs. She’s falling, falling, and it’s not <em> fun </em>anymore, it’s terrifying.</p><p>“Why didn’t you <em> say </em> something, when I was panicking and chucking the book in Claire bloody Welles’s fountain?” </p><p>Mulish determination comes over him. “Right, if you want to rehash this, we can. I didn’t say anything because you were angry. I didn’t think it would help.”</p><p>“Oh, sure.”</p><p>“I didn’t!”</p><p>“You’ve spent six years knowing it was me.” This possibility, even among all the nightmarish scenarios she considered after that day, has never occurred to her. “I feel so <em> stupid— </em> At least you’ve had all that time to get over the disappointment, hey?”</p><p><em> “What?!” </em> James is looking at her like she’s mad. “Are you fucking joking? Lily, I spent those three months at school head over bloody heels for you. When I thought the notebook might be you I was <em> thrilled!” </em></p><p>She crosses her arms, backing away even further. “This is stupid, I don’t want to hear it—”</p><p>He laughs, and it’s nothing like the warm laughs she’s heard all night. This is sharp, humourless. “Oh, you asked, you’re going to hear it. I Skyped my mum to ask what kind of shoes Fred Astaire would wear because you said you were going as Audrey from <em> Funny Face. </em> I wanted to tell you it was me when you were searching for the notebook, but your friends dragged you off, and then I was stupid enough to suggest spin the bottle because I wanted to kiss <em> you!” </em></p><p>Incredulous, she says, “Do you even hear yourself? What do you think this is, some kind of happy reunion?”</p><p>“I don’t see why you’re so ticked off about it! It was all those years ago—”</p><p>“And I’m <em> not her!” </em> Lily bursts out. </p><p>Silence falls; they are both glaring at each other, breathing hard. </p><p>“I’m not her,” Lily continues, more subdued, “and I can’t compete with bloody Notebook Girl, and I don’t even expect this to go anywhere, so—”</p><p>Each successive phrase makes James look like he’s being hit over the head. “Who says you’re competing with Notebook Girl? Look, I was a git in school, but I’ve made my peace with it. It’s not that big a deal—”</p><p>She’s not listening to him — making this clear is much more important than their hookup. Almost hookup, non-hookup. “I’m different now, and you don’t even know me!”</p><p>Bewildered, exasperated, he says, “You won’t bloody let me!”</p><p>It’s obvious what needs to happen next. Lily composes herself with a breath. “I think you should leave.”</p><p>He nods, seemingly to himself. “Yeah. I should.” He opens the door, pauses. “You <em> are </em> different. Talking to strangers about <em> Love island </em> isn’t the same as letting people in.”</p><p>The room is a little colder without him in it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Hell, mate,” Shelby says, wincing.</p><p>“I know. I fucking know.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>JANUARY 30, 2014</h4><p>“Hiya, Kyle,” Lily called as she stepped into the chip shop, shaking the water from her umbrella. “Hi, Eliza.”</p><p>Eliza clicked her tongue. “They’ve sent you out to get the chips on your birthday? That’s just not done.”</p><p>Lily laughed, and did not correct Eliza’s use of <em> they. </em> It’s only her and Doris at home now. “You remembered,” she said instead, approaching the counter.</p><p>“’Course I did!”</p><p>“Well, I fancied a walk. And now I get to say hi to you.”</p><p>“A walk in the rain?”</p><p>“The rain’s nice!”</p><p>Eliza shakes her head fondly. “Whatever you say.” She made up Lily’s usual order and gave her a paper bag that was warm to the touch. While Lily counted out her change — flatly refusing Eliza’s attempts to give her a birthday discount — Kyle the shop boy emerged with an envelope wrapped in grease paper.</p><p>“Ah, perfect—” Eliza balanced the envelope on top of the bag.</p><p>Lily eyed it uncertainly. “What’s this?”</p><p>“For you,” Eliza said simply.</p><p>“From you?”</p><p>“No — from him.”</p><p>Lily stiffened. She hadn’t heard from Notebook Boy since Claire Welles’s party. She’d thrown out the notebook, obviously, so that eliminated their line of communication. More likely than not he’d been scared off by her public humiliation. The punch had thankfully overshadowed the rest of it, but some of the Year Eleven boys still snickered when they saw her.</p><p>“I don’t want it,” Lily said firmly, setting it back on the counter and bundling the paper bag into her arms. It took some juggling to balance it with her umbrella, but she managed, backing away to the shop door even as Eliza protested.</p><p>“Wait — wait a minute, love—” Eliza dropped the envelope into the paper bag before Lily could argue again. </p><p>“I don’t want to read it.” She gave the woman a defiant look.</p><p>Eliza’s expression softened into something like pity. “Then don’t. But just keep it. You never know when you might want it.”</p><p>It would be rude to insist, Lily knew, so she finally thanked the shopkeeper and stepped out into the rain again. In any case, she wasn’t going to want that envelope. Ever.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Merry Fucking Crisis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“And so,” Lily finishes, “that’s how we got here.”</p><p><b>music</b>: in my head (ariana grande), river (joni mitchell), all by myself (celine dion), thoughts (charli xcx), now i'm in it (haim), i wanna get better (bleachers &amp; tinashe), the gate (caroline polachek)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Are you positive you don’t want to come?” </p><p>Dorcas and Mary stand over Lily like concerned parents, dressed in their finest.</p><p>“Positive,” says Lily. She is ensconced in the sitting room armchair, blanket around her shoulders, with wine at her feet and the TV remote in her hand. Happy fucking New Year.</p><p>Dorcas squeezes her shoulder. “Well...we’ll be back around two. Will you be up?”</p><p>“Probably not.” She’s planning on falling asleep in the middle of whatever crap movie’s playing around midnight. “Tell Nicole hi.”</p><p>“We will,” says Mary.</p><p>“If you change your mind,” Dorcas begins uncertainly. “We’re not planning on party-hopping or anything. It’s just Ned Little’s.”</p><p>“I’ll text first,” Lily says. </p><p>“I’ve left you a dress,” Mary says.</p><p>“Mare, you didn’t have to—”</p><p>“I’ve left you a dress,” she repeats, “just in case. It’s on your bed.”</p><p>Lily sighs. “I don’t— I’m not in the mood.”</p><p>“Of course,” says Dorcas. “That’s OK. Only, we only don’t want you to spend the night moping.”</p><p><em> That </em> ship’s sailed. “I’m not moping,” Lily says. “I’m just...considering all of my regrets.”</p><p>Dorcas sighs. “Right.” </p><p>With one last worried glance, she makes for the door. But Mary lingers for a moment. </p><p>“I’ll get over it,” Lily says. It’s unusual that Mary should need more reassurance than Dorcas, but she will gladly give it if that means her mates can actually enjoy a night out instead of dealing with her.</p><p>“Probably,” Mary allows. “But...look, shoving all this shit down and ceremonially throwing it away doesn’t solve anything.” </p><p>“So I’ve heard.”</p><p><em> “Seriously. </em> Speak with Petunia.”</p><p>Lily makes an annoyed sound. Mary ignores this.</p><p>“And don’t let your what-ifs be what-ifs.”</p><p>She twitches. “Mare, it’s not that—”</p><p>Mary steps away. “That’s it, that’s all I’m saying. Just. Think about it.”</p><p>She doesn’t want to think about it. She’s spent two days thinking about it, <em> constantly. </em> And it never ends well when she thinks about it. Mostly because even if she <em> does </em> want to address her what-ifs, her what-ifs definitely don’t want to address her.</p><p>The door clicks shut behind Mary and Dorcas, and Lily clicks on the telly. She channel-surfs for a minute, then settles — choking on a laugh — on <em> Bridget Jones’s Diary. </em> Whatever she’s ruined, at least she can watch Colin Firth and Hugh Grant fight to “It’s Raining Men.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 30, 2019</h4><p>When James leaves, it takes Lily a few seconds to unfreeze. She flops on the bed. Absurdly the first thing she wants to do is cry. That’s the alcohol talking. </p><p>Blinking away the tears, Lily gropes for her purse and digs out her phone and Dorcas’s. The former she plugs into the charger on her nightstand. The latter she unlocks and pulls up the text message thread with Mary.</p><p><em> Three English legends with the same first initial Jane Austen John Terry James fucking Bond, </em> she types. <em> That was the clue. Right from the beginning. He was a Chelsea fan back then too. </em></p><p>Mary’s response comes soon after. <em> That is actually incoherent, Lily. </em></p><p>
  <em> Notebook Boy is James. </em>
</p><p>Instantly: <em> Oh wow. </em> A pause. <em> Since you’re texting me, I’m guessing you’re not shagging? Unless he’s a lot...less good...than I’d hope. </em></p><p>The tears are now streaking down her cheeks; Lily scrubs them away with the back of her hand. But she still snorts at Mary’s message.</p><p>
  <em> We didn’t. He told me and then I told him to leave. </em>
</p><p>The typing bubble appears, then disappears. Lily shucks off her skirt and crawls under the duvet.</p><p>
  <em> wtf??!?!?! what did he say??? was he a dick?? </em>
</p><p>That’s Dorcas.</p><p>
  <em> No, not really. Just couldn’t cope. </em>
</p><p>Silence. <em> We’re on our way back, </em> comes the next message.</p><p>
  <em> No! Don’t spoil your night out for me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> rubbish, c u soon!!! </em>
</p><p>She sighs, falling back against the pillows. She needs to get up and take off her makeup. She needs to figure out why she’s so fucking distraught over something that shouldn’t matter. She stares at the ceiling, tears still leaking from her eyes, and lets each shuddering gasp rack her shoulders.</p><p>Lily counts to ten. When she’s done the sobs fade away. The last few tears trickle into the pillow, and she’s calm again, each breath even and controlled, like she’s half-asleep already.</p><p>
  
</p><p>In the morning everything feels like a mistake. Lily groans and rolls over, half-falling out of bed. Her head pounds with a fury.</p><p>There’s a jug full of water on her nightstand. She pours herself a glass and drinks it greedily. Five cups later she slouches to the loo and only then does she feel up to slinking into the kitchen, where Mary and Dorcas are making breakfast. </p><p>They turn at her entrance, making matching faces of sympathy.</p><p>“Feeling alright?” Mary says.</p><p>“Like shit,” Lily croaks. She waddles to the kitchen and sits on the counter, curling into the foetal position. What she really wants to do is be unconscious for another forty-eight hours and then wake up again without a hangover. Or memory of last night.</p><p>“D’you want to talk about it?”</p><p>“Again?” says Lily, accepting the cup of tea that Dorcas hands her. There was some drunken conversation about it when the girls returned last night, the details of which escape Lily at present. But she’s pretty sure she told them everything important.</p><p>“Yeah, now that you’re sober,” says Mary.</p><p>“I feel less human than I did last night.”</p><p>“Sorry it got...complicated,” Dorcas says. “Eggs?”</p><p>“Dear God, yeah.”</p><p><em> Complicated, </em> yes. That is accurate. Lily abruptly realises that she’s sitting in the exact spot where James kissed her last night. Her first instinct is to move, but she’s far too hungover to try it.</p><p>The three of them eat breakfast in the kitchen mostly in silence. Lily’s on her third egg when Mary says, “Was he a good snog?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Last night, you never said if he was a good snog.”</p><p>Lily opens her mouth, then closes it again. If she tells the truth, she will have to think about how she turned it down — whatever the reasons. In daylight, crabby and tired as she is, those reasons seem rather distant. But if she lies...she’s not sure she’ll be able to get the lie out.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says sadly. “Really good.”</p><p>Dorcas makes a pitying sound. “Oh, Lily. Confronting heartbreak fucking sucks.”</p><p>She jerks her head up so quickly that it takes her a minute to settle her throbbing head before she can speak. “It’s not heartbreak. I was fifteen.”</p><p>The other two exchange glances.</p><p>“OK, so we’re talking about this,” exhales Mary. “You know that it’s...alright to admit it upset you, yeah?”</p><p>Lily blinks. “What?” she says through a mouthful of eggs.</p><p>“It upset you. It upset you to never meet someone you shared a lot of personal things with.”</p><p>“Come on,” Lily scoffs, “you’re the one who was all, ‘You’re not gonna like each other! You’ve idealised each other in your minds!’”</p><p>Dorcas rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and <em> Mary </em> was fifteen. She wasn’t one hundred percent right either.”</p><p>“Thanks,” says Mary.</p><p>“Anytime. Maybe you wouldn’t have liked him if you’d met him then. But if you’ve really put 2013 out of your head, what does it matter?”</p><p>The kitchen falls silent. Dorcas pushes around the sausages on the frying pan blithely, as if what she’s said is perfectly ordinary and not at all too much for Lily’s pounding head to deal with at present.</p><p>“What?” she says.</p><p>Dorcas shrugs. “You’ve moved on, blah blah blah. So what does it matter that you and James Potter had a brief pen pal teenage love thing?”</p><p>“It wasn’t teenage love,” says Lily, to buy herself more time to think.</p><p>Mary stares at Dorcas in awe. “I think you broke her,” she stage-whispers. “We don’t <em> point out </em> to Lily the flaws in her repression strategies.”</p><p>“I don’t have repression strategies!”</p><p>“Babe, please.”</p><p>“I <em> don’t,” </em> Lily insists. The food and the tea are working their magic on her, and now she feels like she’s up for a proper argument. “Just — the idea that James Potter had a big enough impact on my life as bloody <em> Notebook Boy </em> for me to <em> repress </em> things about him—”</p><p>“You hear how this sounds, don’t you?” Mary says. Shark scents blood.</p><p>Lily is quiet for a moment. That’s not true, is it? She lets herself feel things. She’s let herself feel things her whole life. When she and Petunia found out about their parents’ split, she cried for hours. And then...she wrote about it to Notebook Boy.</p><p>But, on the other hand, so what if she doesn’t have crying sessions over emotional inconveniences now? So what if she didn’t break down over Dad’s surprise girlfriend, or Petunia’s fiancé and the <em> awful </em> things he says to her? That’s what adults do. They move on.</p><p>“James said,” Lily says, picking her way around the words like they’re a landmine. “Before left, James said that...talking to strangers isn’t the same as letting people in. That’s— I let <em> you </em> in.” She swallows the <em> don’t I? </em> she wants to tack on at the end.</p><p>“Not to bring this back to Notebook Boy,” Dorcas says slowly, “but we never spoke about that. And you <em> told </em> us what happened with Petunia, but...you didn’t talk about how it made you feel.”</p><p>“I did! I said it made me furious!”</p><p>“And that’s all you said,” Mary says.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“And then you decided to dig through the Year Ten box.”</p><p>Words fail her, so Lily turns back to her plate and mops up the dribbling yolk on it with a slice of toast. </p><p>“I’m not — broken,” she says loudly, when she’s swallowed her toast.</p><p>“Oh, darling,” Dorcas says, squeezing her socked foot — the only available, squeezable part of her.</p><p>“I’m not— It’s— OK, maybe it’s hard for me to let people in, but I’m not <em> fragile, </em>I—” To her embarrassment, tears gather in her eyes.</p><p>“Lily, come on.” Mary’s on her other side, one hand on her knee. “We’ve all got hangups. And neither of us did a stranger’s dares at fifteen.” Dorcas nods eagerly.</p><p>“But I’m not the same as I was then.” His voice rings in her head: <em> You </em> are <em> different, </em> a dull-edged knife.</p><p>“You are and you aren’t,” Dorcas shrugs. “But you can’t cut yourself off from the people you’ve been and the things you’ve done.”</p><p>“And you can’t spend your life holding possibility at arm’s length,” says Mary. “Like, say, James.”</p><p>“This isn’t about <em> him, </em> it’s about her!”</p><p>“Well, he’s been a recurring catalyst. I’m only saying—”</p><p>Lily cuts in before they can talk themselves into a squabble. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he wants to see me anyway.”</p><p>Mary rolls her eyes. “Jesus, would you let him decide? He likes an ideal version of you! He’s pining after Notebook Girl! He doesn’t want to see you! Stop listening to what’s in that big, lovely brain of yours, and listen to what he’s got to say instead.”</p><p>“But you don’t have to sleep with him to figure out how you feel about your whole life,” Dorcas says quickly.</p><p>“Careful. That’s my way of living.”</p><p>“No, Dorcas is right.” Lily’s frowning now, pushing her empty plate to the sink. “It can’t be a one and done with him. Even if we’re not the same as we were six years ago, he still—” <em> Knows me. </em> He knows something of her, and this is what she’s been kicking and screaming trying not to consider. </p><p>And it’s not the strict, controlled story that any adult tells another adult before letting them into their life. It’s messy and young and stumbling, and Lily <em> hates </em> stumbling. </p><p>“He said he’d text me the address to a New Year’s party,” Lily says. </p><p>The girls look hopeful. Dorcas scurries off to her room and returns with Lily’s phone. “It’s going to die in like a second,” she warns.</p><p>Lily unlocks it. No new messages.</p><p>“He still might text,” Dorcas says. “Later, maybe. You don’t even know if he’s awake yet.”</p><p>“Ah, well,” Lily says, trying to soldier on and turn her disappointment into flippancy. “That’s that. Sometimes the one gets away twice.”</p><p>And really, what right does she have to be disappointed? <em> She </em> turned <em> him </em> down. Of course he doesn’t want to see her.</p><p>Dorcas coughs awkwardly. Lily looks up — her phone gives a mournful buzz and dies — to find that both of her friends are staring at her.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You called him <em> the one,” </em> Mary says. She appears torn between triumph and shock.</p><p>Oh. Well. That’s a turn of phrase. That’s… “Soulmates don’t exist,” Lily mumbles, pushing her phone away. “They’re made, not — handed out.”</p><p>And she knows they’re all thinking the same thing, and <em> they </em> know they’re all thinking the same thing. So no one says anything. The conversation may as well be over.</p><p>Lily slides off the countertop. “I’ll do the dishes.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>In the evening Lily does some tidying up. It helps take her mind off things, rooting through her sock drawer and mismatching the pairs for fun, digging out the boxes under her bed and replenishing her store of makeup wipes and replacing her toothbrush. Amidst the things marked Year Eleven and Year Twelve — which she avoids like the plague — Lily spots another box. <em> Old Diaries. </em> </p><p>She digs it out and props it on her desk, making short work of the tape across its top. She's been keeping a diary since she was very young, so there's plenty to get rid of. The very first one is blue, familiar as a ghost. Lily scowls at it and stuffs it back inside the box, deciding she will come back to the diaries later.</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>OK, Lily has her fair share of problems. But at least she’s not thirty years old and unwilling to stand up to her own mother <em> and </em> concerningly preoccupied with her weight. There’s nothing like a bit of Bridget to remind her that’s she’s really doing alright.</p><p>Also none of her romantic prospects had been her boss. Jesus Christ. And the problem with watching this film on the telly is that she can’t fast-forward through all the bits when secondhand embarrassment makes her want to scream. The wine helps there, though. </p><p>Come to think of it, why does Bridget always have her bra on in bed? Immediately post-sex? How good is Daniel Cleaver in the sack if he doesn’t even take her bra off? There’s no accounting for taste, clearly. James would definitely take <em> her </em> bra off.</p><p>“Oh my God,” Lily says aloud. </p><p>There really is something wrong with her. She shouldn’t have had anything to drink — she ought to have had a nice early night. Because now it’s as though her brain is rebelling against her, going <em> what if what if what if. </em> </p><p>It’s nothing short of excruciating. Because he hasn’t texted her all day, and he’s not going to. And it doesn’t matter. Because he hasn’t texted her. </p><p>“No, I like you very much. Just as you are,” says Colin Firth as Mark Darcy, and even though Lily knows this represents the failed confession in <em> Pride and Prejudice </em> she lets out a soft, sad sigh.</p><p>She checks her phone, which is at two percent battery. She sets down the bottle of wine and slides halfway out of the chair to stick the charger in. Then she hunkers down and prepares for the birthday fight.</p><p>This scene redeems the rest of the film’s 2001 weirdness. Lily is beaming with her entire face, whispering <em> oh God </em> at the birthday cake interlude, screeching at the broken fucking <em> glass </em> like it’s her first time watching. And then she wonders what it means that this is her favourite part of the movie, where two men are literally brawling in the street.</p><p>Just as Bridget is giving Daniel Cleaver the rejection he so badly deserves, Lily’s phone buzzes. She glances over at it. It’s not a number she has saved. She goes very still. </p><p>It’s probably spam. Some promotional thing she accidentally signed up for. </p><p>It buzzes again. Same number. Lily falls out of the armchair trying to get it. Grumbling and squirming into a comfortable sitting position, she unlocks it. </p><p>“I’m still looking for something,” Bridget says, “more extraordinary than that.”</p><p>The first message contains an address. The second message says, <em> Any other night I would not be so forward, but my best mate is miserable fucking company at present. Please sleep with him. </em></p><p>“What the fuck?” says Lily aloud.</p><p>
  <em> That was a joke. In case it didn’t translate. This is Sirius. </em>
</p><p>What a prick. Lily turns her back on the telly and types out her answer. <em> It didn’t. And he doesn’t want to see me. If he did he’d have texted. </em></p><p>
  <em> I’ve known him since he was five. He wants to see you. </em>
</p><p>What was it Mary said, earlier? <em> I’m not putting words in his mouth. Or pretending I have the faintest clue what he thinks of me. </em></p><p><em> Fine, </em> says Sirius. <em> I’m breaking a dozen rules of friendship saying this but check your fridge. </em></p><p>She frowns. <em> There isn’t anything in the fridge. </em></p><p>
  <em> Check the outside of the fridge. </em>
</p><p>Lily leaves the Joneses making up and pads into the kitchen. She switches on the light. The far side of the fridge, she realises, has the photo she dug up from the Year Ten play. She’d never gotten a decent look at it the other day. </p><p>It’s the whole cast — understudies like herself included — arranged on stage. She frees it from its magnet to squint at it closer. There’s Mary, regal in her Olivia costume. All the vaguely familiar faces from school. </p><p>Lily was not the tallest girl but she’s somehow stuck in the last row. With faint shock she realises that’s James beside her. He must’ve just said something to her, because she’s laughing, and they’re looking at each other instead of the camera. </p><p>It’s not as though anyone seeing that photo would take it to be evidence of a great love story. They’re just kids laughing at a joke. But Lily supposes that’s how plenty of things begin. With possibility. </p><p>The photo is the only thing on the fridge. She flips it over. There’s writing on the other side.</p><p>James’s handwriting is a messier, more adult version of Notebook Boy’s. He writes his lowercase Ys the same way, with a straight, downward line for a tail instead of a loop. Lily wonders why she remembers that. And then she realises how stupid she’s been, trying to convince herself she ever forgot.</p><p><em> Do you remember, </em> James has written, <em> the practice when you got to sub in for Maria, and the bloke who played Malvolio was socreepy? I stuck my foot out and tripped him. You jumped out of the way, thank God. And then you told me off for trying to act the hero.  </em></p><p>
  <em> The bottom line is, we used to know two different versions of each other. (Yes, it was me in that notebook, and I’m working my way towards telling you. I’ve a feeling you’d want to hear it.) Possibly the notebook versions were through rose-coloured glasses, I don’t know. But I’m glad I could get to know Notebook Girl anyway. And I want to get to know you, Lily Evans. This version of you. Multiples, if you’ve got them. If you’ll have me. </em>
</p><p>When must he have written this? Before they’d argued, before they’d kissed — when she was scrubbing away at her skirt, probably, and he was refilling his bag of ice. At once the rational part of her wakes up, reminding her that this was the stuff of storybooks and therefore not to be trusted. That he barely knew her and so any ardour she read into his words couldn’t be real.</p><p><em> I know, </em> Lily tells her rational self, <em> I know, but…  </em></p><p>Hope is thick and painful in her throat, and she closes her eyes briefly against the force of it. Maybe it’s true that whatever she felt when she first saw him was fleeting or purely physical; maybe they will have to come to terms with the fact that they <em> don’t </em> work together. But she can’t turn maybes into certainties until she <em> knows. </em></p><p>Half in a daze Lily walks back to her phone. Sirius has sent her a string of texts trying to get her attention.</p><p><em> I’m back, </em> she writes.</p><p>
  <em> Well? Are you coming or what? </em>
</p><p>In the background she can hear Mark telling Bridget he’d forgotten to kiss her goodbye.</p><p>
  <em> Yes. Make sure he doesn’t leave. </em>
</p><p>Then she dashes to her bedroom.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lily’s stolen Mary’s powerbank and powdered and fluffed herself to the nines. It takes her twenty-five minutes to finally get a taxi. For every second of it she panics. If <em> she </em> were pissed off and moody and at a New Year’s party, nothing would be capable of inducing her to stay past midnight, not even the persuasive powers of her best mates. </p><p>Thanks to <em> Bridget Jones, </em> her dressing-up, and the taxi-acquiring delay, it’s now half past eleven. On a normal night it’d be twenty minutes to Hampstead Heath. On New Year’s Eve, however...she can’t even estimate.</p><p>Lily collapses into the taxi’s passenger seat with relief. “Hiya.”</p><p>The woman driving gives her a nod and a smile. “Having a nice night?”</p><p>She laughs. “It’s been interesting. Got any New Year’s weirdos?”</p><p>“Too fucking many.” The cabbie barks out a laugh.</p><p>“What’s your name?”</p><p>“Shelby.”</p><p>“I’m Lily. Oh — it’s Hampstead Heath, by the way.”</p><p>“Brill.”</p><p>“D’you think we’ll get there by midnight?”</p><p>Shelby winces. “Anybody’s guess.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>JANUARY 1, 2020</h4><p>“And so,” Lily finishes, “that’s how we got here.” She catches sight of the dashboard clock: 12:14. Her heart lurches. “Shit. Happy New Year!”</p><p>“So it is,” says Shelby. “We’ve got maybe...two more minutes. Text the friend and tell him you’re nearly there.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re right—”</p><p>Lily digs out her phone, which she’s switched off so she won’t have to depend on the powerbank too soon. She waits for it to turn on, plugging it in and practically shaking with impatience.</p><p>No less than sixty-five texts from Sirius arrive in rapid succession. She swears. The last of them is <em> He’s going to leave I did my best. </em></p><p>Two minutes ago. Lily texts back a plea, hoping “going to” hasn’t yet translated into action. Then, on impulse, she finds her thread with Petunia. The last message she sent her sister was a week ago. She types, <em> Happy New Year. Love you. Call me in the morning. </em> </p><p>She puts her phone away. Her heart’s pounding like she’s been running laps. “He might’ve left already.”</p><p>Shelby says, “No chance he’s getting a taxi right now.”</p><p>“Maybe, but…”</p><p>“Trust me. Why don’t you call him?”</p><p>“I haven’t got his number,” Lily says. <em> Why </em> hadn’t she thought to send herself a text from his phone? </p><p>Well, that might’ve been a step too far. It makes sense why she didn’t. But she still wishes she had. </p><p>“Ugh,” says Shelby, and that about sums it up. They drive the last few minutes in silence. </p><p>The house, the one on the address, is lit-up and loud. Lily realises she ought to tell Sirius where to bring James, or they’ll never find each other. But just as she’s about to tap out a message to that effect, she notices the single figure on the pavement and the single taxi pulling up to him.</p><p>“Stop,” Lily says, already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Stop, stop, that’s him.”</p><p>Shelby’s car squeals to a halt. “D’you want me to wait?”</p><p>“No, I’m fine.” </p><p>She will get Sirius to find her a taxi back if it comes to that. Which it might. Hopefully it won’t but — it might.</p><p>“Sure?”</p><p>“Of course. You’ve listened to my rubbish for long enough.” Lily empties out her purse and hands the entire resulting wad of cash to Shelby, whose brows have disappeared under her fringe.</p><p>“This is too much,” says Shelby, but Lily’s already halfway out of the car.</p><p>“Bye, I hope your brother’s UCAS thing gets sorted!” she shouts, and hopefully Shelby heard her. </p><p>Then she sprints across the road, throws open the taxi door, and drops into the back seat at exactly the same time as James. He looks flummoxed at the sight of her. Lily shuts her door against the cold air, leans forward towards the driver, and says the first place that comes to mind: “Blackfriars, please.”</p><p>She takes a moment to catch her breath. Then Lily turns to James, who still hasn’t spoken a word, and says, “Hi.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Happy Bloody Ending?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Are you gonna talk to me, or just fantasise about your imaginary girlfriend?”</p><p><b>music</b>: christmas wrapping (the waitresses), wonderful christmastime (paul mccartney), christmas (baby please come home) (darlene love), tokyo love hotel (rina sawayama), you're still a mystery (bleachers &amp; mø), if you leave me now (charlie puth &amp; boyz ii men), if i could have you back (aly &amp; aj), that holiday feelin' (mr &amp; mrs), holly (would you turn me on?) (all time low), don't make it harder on me (chloe x halle), poppin' champagne (all time low), betty (taylor swift)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>DECEMBER 29, 2019</h4><p>“D’you know what,” James says from the carpet, “I have a feeling Pete makes post-Christmas fun.”</p><p>Sirius, flung across the sofa as he is, waves a hand in agreement. “Why didn’t we go with him, again? It’s bloody Majorca.”</p><p>“Because he’s with his girlfriend and her parents,” says Remus. He’s the only one of them sitting upright — on a cushion that definitely belongs <em> not </em> on the floor.</p><p>Not that James will tell him off for it. The house is in a general state of disarray — glitter, inexplicably, sticks to the floors, and everything smells faintly of vodka. The cleanup road ahead looks grim.</p><p>“Boo fucking hoo,” says Sirius. “We should’ve gone.”</p><p>“I don’t care about Majorca, so long as we don’t spend tonight like we did last night,” says James. “Whose idea was it to invite <em> Trevor?” </em></p><p>“Sirius’s,” Remus says at once.</p><p>“I only invited him for his sister,” Sirius protests.</p><p>“Oh, well, in <em> that </em> case, all’s forgiven.”</p><p>“Is Trevor’s sister worth the wanker entourage?” James says.</p><p>“Yep,” says Sirius. “But he didn’t bring her last night.” He looks quite genuinely despondent at this.</p><p>“Here’s an idea,” says Remus, “skip the middleman next time and just text Georgiana yourself. Then none of us has to put up with Trevor.”</p><p>“He did bring some decent alcohol,” James muses.</p><p>The other two consider this and murmur agreement. </p><p>“Right, when we go out tonight, we’re leaving the fucking house. I can’t stay in this swamp.” James tries to sit up, then gives up halfway through. “What’s the time? Breakfast?”</p><p>“It’s two in the afternoon,” says Remus.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Breakfast is breakfast,” Sirius says.</p><p>They stumble like zombies to the kitchen.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Once they’re fortified, conversation turns to what, exactly, they’ll do that night. Sirius is of the firm opinion that since they’re not in Majorca with Peter, they need to do their best to make him proud — which means relentless partying. </p><p>James isn’t really opposed. The holidays are his favourite time of year, and getting to spend them with his mates — even with a man down, so to speak — is the ideal scenario. Only, they’re working with a rather slim list of options here.</p><p>“Jenny’s having a thing,” says Sirius.</p><p>“Remus hates Jenny,” James says.</p><p>Remus is indignant. “I don’t <em> hate </em> her, I just—”</p><p>“Hate her.”</p><p>“I don’t! I’ve met her twice.”</p><p>“And both times you hated her, told me off for having flirted with her, told Sirius off for having slept with her, and told Peter off for saying <em> hello </em> to her—”</p><p>“You’re blowing this so far out of proportion,” Remus says.</p><p>“OK, then we’ll go to Jenny’s,” says Sirius.</p><p>Remus’s eyebrow twitches. The other two laugh.</p><p>“Look,” says Remus, like he’s about to make a massive concession, “why don’t I see what people <em> I </em> know are doing?”</p><p>James and Sirius exchange intrigued glances. Through uni they’ve lived apart from Remus, and the four of them have always gone to parties with <em> their </em> classmates. Remus, meanwhile, has no social media to speak of, and has always seemed content to not invite over anyone he goes to uni with. Historically, it’s been convenient for James, but that’s a separate issue.</p><p>“Oh, let’s,” says Sirius. “Ask the fetching one from the study group. Whatshername, Nicola.”</p><p>“Nicole,” James corrects.</p><p>“Yep, that’s the one.”</p><p>Remus is typing something on his phone. “You are actually—” he doesn’t look up “—the worst person I know.”</p><p>Sirius grins. “So kind of you to say it.”</p><p>“Oh, Nicole works at the pub. I forgot about that.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind a pub,” says James. Really, anything to escape the hellhole that his house has temporarily transformed into. Like, yes, he’ll have to clean it eventually, but that’s a problem for a future version of him.</p><p>Sirius shrugs. “Sounds fine with me. Maybe we’ll actually meet the people Remus has been hiding from us for three-and-change years.”</p><p>“Hiding from <em> you,” </em> James says. </p><p>“Yeah, what he said,” says Remus.</p><p>“Fuck off.” A shifty look comes over Sirius, one that never bodes well. “What’re the odds we’ll run into James’s pen pal, eh?”</p><p>Oh. Oh, yeah. There’s that risk they’d be running.</p><p>“Er,” says James, “probably low, right? It’s a pub around New Year’s. And I’m sure she has other things to do.”</p><p>Remus hums. “Dunno, we might. Ned Little’s <em> is </em> their spot.”</p><p>Their <em> spot? </em> “Yeah, I don’t think we should go,” James says quickly. “Seems like more trouble than it’s worth, going all the way over there—”</p><p>“No, no, hang on,” says Sirius, wagging a finger. “I like the sound of this pub more and more. Ned Little’s. It’s got a good energy to it.”</p><p>“Eh, I don’t know. I don’t know about that.”</p><p>“Tough. Because I feel pretty certain about it.”</p><p>James throws a pleading look at Remus, who’s holding back a smile. </p><p>“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” says Remus.</p><p>Sirius boos him, and chucks a used napkin in his direction. “Suck it up, James. You don’t even know what she looks like. And it’s a pub. You won’t see anyone you’re not searching for.”</p><p>See, James has demonstrably awful impulse control. It’s one of his worst qualities. But every time he’s gone to look up Lily Evans on the internet, he’s reminded himself that that is not a path he wants to walk down. </p><p>“It’s not like I last saw her when she was five,” says James. “How much can someone change in a few years?”</p><p>“Four years?” Sirius guesses. “Right?”</p><p>“Five?” says Remus.</p><p>“Six,” James corrects at once. His friends grin. “I haven’t been counting,” he mumbles. “Whatever. Sod off.”</p><p>“Here’s what I think,” Sirius says, “you’ve got two options. One, move on. Grow up, stop avoiding places she might be like she’s going to snipe you on sight.”</p><p>James rolls his eyes. It is a lot — and his friends <em> know </em> it’s a lot — to ask him <em> not </em> to be dramatic about something. He can’t bloody help it. It’s like a compulsion. He’d need a damn good reason not to be, and <em> grow up because you’re an adult and you can’t kick up a fuss </em> is not a good reason.</p><p>“What’s option two?” he says.</p><p>“Get it out of your system.”</p><p>James’s jaw drops. </p><p>Remus chucks the wadded-up napkin right back at Sirius. “Again. The <em> actual </em> worst person I know.”</p><p>“You’re both insane,” James informs them. “I’m fine and normal and not weird about Lily Evans, OK? Look, if it makes you happy we’ll go to Ned Beetle’s or whatever the fuck it’s called.” He’ll show them. It’ll be a nice normal night out, and then they can’t nag him about avoiding a girl he sort of used to know six years ago.</p><p>“Little’s,” says Remus in an undertone.</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>“It doesn’t make <em> me </em> happy to see you do something you don’t want to do just to prove a point,” says Remus. “But I can already tell I won’t convince you to do otherwise.” </p><p>“No. Mind’s made up,” says James.</p><p>“Well, it’ll make <em>me</em> happy,” Sirius says.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 26, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> Happy Christmas, Notebook Boy. Thank you for the notebook. I’ll be honest, my evening was nothing short of awful. I feel bad launching into the whole pitiful story right away, but there’s not much else to tell. Here goes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My sister came down for the holiday, and I’ve been trying not to argue with her constantly (Mum’s words, not mine). She’s sort of a stickler for cleanliness and she keeps trying to tidy things up even when no one asks. She doesn’t live here anymore. She doesn’t need to get so up in arms about the state of my dresser! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That bit’s important. Because she was tidying around as usual and she found this envelope addressed to Mum. And because she’s a massive busybody she opened it, and then she showed it to me, and it’s divorce papers. Dad served Mum, and we’re all living in this bloody house, and no one thought to tell me and my sister. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Or even, say, just me. Because I live here still.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So the whole sordid thing has come out. Dad’s met someone else. And they’ve been trying to play it cool so as not to upset me, only it didn’t occur to them that this would upset me more.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Why do people pretend to be in love? It makes no sense to me at all. Who’s it supposed to serve? If it’s so foreign and scary and difficult and complicated, why do it at all? I know this is very un-Christmassy of me. But I can’t bring myself to care.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was supposed to be a day for our family. And now I get to spend it wondering how much of the past year has been an elaborate lie. I want to be an optimist, and I want to believe in genuine human connection. But it seems like what the world wants is to get me down, to prove me wrong. Some days I get so sick of it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyway, that’s enough of me unloading my rubbish onto you. I noticed you didn’t include a dare last time. Have you lost your nerve? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Are you gonna talk to me, or just fantasise about your imaginary girlfriend?” Sirius’s tinny voice, coming from the phone speaker, startled James out of his reverie.</p><p>He frowned, though he <em> had </em> been thinking about Notebook Girl. “I’m not fantasising.”</p><p>“Not with me on the phone, I hope.”</p><p>“Shut up. How’s Alphard?”</p><p>“Doing alright. A welcome sight as compared to my mum, I can tell you that. Even if he lives in the middle of nowhere.”</p><p>James grinned. “Stop complaining. You’re in the Alps, for Christmas.”</p><p>“Yeah, and it’s freezing!”</p><p>“You’re such a bore. Go skiing or something.”</p><p>“Done that. It’s no fun when Alphard’s got bad knees.”</p><p>“Shame. I’d be a great skiing partner.”</p><p>Both boys took a moment to reflect sadly on what could’ve been if they’d been allowed to spend the holidays together. Of course, no parent in their right mind would have let Sirius Black and James Potter in a house, unsupervised, for more than one afternoon. And even if Walburga Black’s parenting techniques were suspect, Euphemia and Fleamont had gently told James that they weren’t OK with the house burning down just because they’d be moving soon.</p><p>“Thank fuck you’re finally boarding,” said Sirius at last. </p><p>“Yeah, thank fuck,” James said, after a moment of hesitation.</p><p>It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to boarding school with Sirius. It sounded great. It would put an end to the constant motion demanded by his father’s company business and his mother’s book tours and everything in between. The Potters liked to be mobile, age be damned. And they also hadn’t wanted their son to grow up with lordlings and brats.</p><p>James hadn’t minded the moving around, honestly. He liked travelling too. But as his parents worried more about his future — what would he do? What would he study? <em> Where </em> would he study? — they had made the top-down decision that it was time he settled. And so to boarding school he’d go. </p><p>So why wait the rest of the year, making friends he’d only have to leave behind eventually? It made sense to change mid-term. It really did. He wasn’t fussed about it. What little unfinished business he’d be leaving was minor. Like never telling Lily Evans he fancied the pants off her. </p><p>Except now there was the notebook. And it had been a way to say goodbye at first, a last hurrah, but — this latest entry, it was so angry and — <em> sad. </em> Not the funny, snarky voice of the first few messages they’d exchanged. Which meant James had to take his time responding.</p><p>“You’re doing it again,” said Sirius.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Daydreaming about her.”</p><p>James huffed. “Stop being a prick or I’ll hang up.”</p><p>“Oooh, scary.”</p><p>They both knew he wouldn’t.</p><p>“Look, what would you do to remind someone of the...power of love, or whatever?” said James, feeling awfully embarrassed even for asking.</p><p>Sirius groaned. “You’ve got to be joking. You’re going to rope me into this crap, and not even let me choose a <em> fun </em> dare?”</p><p>“You can save the fun dares for later.”</p><p>“Christ.”</p><p>“Be helpful or I’m going to go ring someone else.”</p><p>“Like who?” said Sirius sensibly. “You want to explain this scheme to your mother?”</p><p>James shuddered to think of it. “No way.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>He taps the end of his pen against the notebook as he thinks. “What’s romantic?”</p><p>“I fucking hate you.”</p><p><em> “That’s </em> not romantic at all.”</p><p>“I dunno, chocolates? Flowers? Cards? Did I mention I hate you?”</p><p>But flowers and cards and chocolates were just things. And things didn’t have meaning without their contexts. He could hand a stranger on the road a rose and it wouldn’t <em> mean </em> the same thing as the Valentine’s Day flowers his dad always bought his mum.</p><p>“Old people in love,” said Sirius, “that always gets people.”</p><p>James sat up. “Fuck, you’re a genius.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>His uncle Des played singles bingo at the old age home on Thursday nights. <em> Today </em> was a Thursday. It wasn’t old people in love, really — it was quite the opposite. But James had been, once, and it was kind of <em> fun. </em> All the old biddies had fawned over him, and he’d learned some very interesting poker strategies at the underground gambling table.</p><p>Notebook Girl would like it. He knew it at once. She would bond with all the nans and swap stories with them and it would make her happy, after that disastrous Christmas.</p><p>“I’ve got to go,” James said. “I need to ring Uncle Des.” </p><p>“Typical,” Sirius grumbled. “Fine, keep me updated on what your girlfriend says.”</p><p><em> “Not </em> my girlfriend,” said James, but he was grinning.</p><p>“It’s embarrassing how quickly you get this <em> sappy.”</em></p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 27, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> You’ve never been subtle, but this has to be a new low. Really, elders’ singles bingo? If you were trying to tell me it’s OK to grow old alone because I’ll still have a great bingo group...it worked. I gather Des was your contact at the home. He says hello. He’s quite sweet, him and all his mates. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Larry wanted me to pass on this: he and Marianne are officially dating now. He’s mad for her. As in, that’s what he told me to say, and also that’s what I gathered from the way he talked about her. So...that was a really transparent attempt to shove love in my face.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But it was nice. It’s got to be the nicest dare you’ve given me so far.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In exchange I will go easy on you. Hamleys is full of the holiday rush, I hear, even though it’s past Christmas. So go find a family and sneak into the background of a family photo. This is all on the honour system, mind, since I know you won’t show me the photo or any kind of proof. Still, I trust that you’ll actually do it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Snag me an early birthday gift, maybe. January 30th, mark it on your calendar.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Leave the book under the stoop as usual. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>James was leafing idly through old mail. His mother had a very intense correspondence tracker, but a few letters remained in her to-be-answered pile. One of them caught his eye: a pale gold envelope, addressed to his parents. </p><p>He didn’t think twice before opening it. A wedding, then, one that his parents certainly wouldn’t be attending. He hadn’t the faintest idea who Prue and John were. He could go, take advantage of the food...but James wasn’t in the mood to go to a function alone, and remember how bored and <em> alone </em> he was at present.</p><p>Although… </p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 28, 2013</h4><p>
  <em>A wedding. You made me crash a wedding. I’m starting to think you’re drifting back to the swear-at-Pince genre of dares. It was lovely, though. Someone lent me a hanky when I began crying. You tell anyone I told you that, I’ll kill you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I wonder how you got the invitation. It makes me think you must be related to Prue or John. But you’re an only child. So...cousins? Maybe I ought to have asked the wedding guests about you instead of the bingo players. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dare for you: cartwheels down High Street at midday. No, I won’t come spy on you. Someone or the other can tell me about the crazy boy who did them. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 30, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> This morning I was thinking about seasonal migration. You know the birds that leave here for the winter? Do you think there are any that come here? Do you think the winter birds and the summer birds know about each other? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry. You don’t want to hear about my ornithological preoccupations. That’s what the other notebook’s for. Sort of in the vein of migratory birds, though, is Claire Welles’s New Year’s party (hear me out). My mates and I will be there. It’s Elvis and Audrey, and I’m going as Audrey from Funny Face. And I thought I’d like to see you in person. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If you don’t want to, it’s totally fine. But it would be nice to go into the new year knowing I have a new friend. Stoop by half-eleven. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Why’d you send me nine hundred messages?” Sirius said.</p><p>“It’s an emergency, obviously!”</p><p>“Go on, then. What’d she say?”</p><p>James held the notebook open in front of himself, studying the words that had filled him with both euphoria and terror. </p><p>“She wants to <em> meet.” </em></p><p>An abrupt <em> thump </em> sound came over the line. Silence. “Sorry,” said Sirius, “dropped the phone. <em> Wow. </em> Fucking finally! She’s ballsier than you are, mate.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” James said. “Point is, what am I going to do?”</p><p>“Meet her. Obviously.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“But <em> what? </em> C’mon, you’re not seriously considering saying <em> no? </em> You’ve put me through a whole week of talking <em> exclusively </em> about her!”</p><p>“So this is your compensation?”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>James sighed. “I don’t know. I’m leaving, remember?”</p><p>“So what were you planning on doing? Just blowing her off eventually, when you move?”</p><p>“No! Of course not!”</p><p>“Then what?”</p><p>He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I’d tell her I’m going. And, er, that it’s been good getting to know her—”</p><p>Sirius blew a loud raspberry. “No, fuck that.”</p><p>“Come on—”</p><p>“Look, she’ll realise when you leave, yeah? She’ll put two and two together?”</p><p>James hadn’t considered that. “I guess so. Maybe.”</p><p>“Do you want to be the prick who let her put two and two together, instead of speaking to her like a normal human being?”</p><p>“I know the second one’s the answer you’re fishing for—”</p><p>“It’s the <em> right </em> answer!” Sirius sounded exasperated to the fullest. For all of his complaining, James realised, he had been invested in this whole thing too. “What’ve you got to lose?”</p><p>“Nothing, I suppose.” Because he was leaving. Because he wouldn’t be able to see her, after his parents returned and he was shipped off to boarding school. And...Sirius was right. Even if she were disappointed to find out who he was, they would both have the clean break that moving afforded, and then neither of them would have to wonder forever.</p><p>“It’s called closure,” Sirius said knowledgeably. “Birds <em> love </em> closure. They’re all over it.”</p><p>“What the hell would you know about what birds like?”</p><p>“Don’t bitch at me when you’re refusing to take my excellent advice.”</p><p>James fell silent. He’d been to Claire Welles’s house before, to parties. This one had a theme and everything. He knew enough of the Year Eleven girls to know they took their costumes very seriously. And Notebook Girl was taking hers seriously as well.</p><p>If only he could eschew the rule entirely and show up in something that matched her — but that was too much, wasn’t it? Way too much. The definition of coming on too strong.</p><p>“I think I have to phone my mum,” James said.</p><p>“God, you’re not gonna tell her, are you?”</p><p>“I have to ask her for fashion advice.”</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2013</h4><p>It was nearly half past ten. James glanced in the direction of the open window, and Claire Welles’s empty back garden. Well — it wasn’t empty anymore. Some of the older blokes were smoking outside. The girls near the open window were grimacing at the smell.</p><p>Maybe he and Notebook Girl could walk around to the front instead. He’d endure the vile fountain lights for a bit of privacy. Yes, that was the best idea.</p><p>Movement caught his eye — Lily Evans, her red hair like a beacon even in the dark room, watching a snogging couple occupy the jacket-covered sofa with a distinct expression of disgust on her face. He stifled a laugh at the sight of it. At the same time he hoped— </p><p>Well, it was stupid to hope. It might not be her. It <em> sounded </em> like her, and there was no reason that it couldn’t be her, but it might not be her.</p><p>But it could be her. </p><p>He knew that Lily didn’t really require rescuing, but something propelled him to her side. “Oi, she’s trying to get her jacket, if you could stop <em> necking.” </em> The couple left; James nodded politely at Lily.</p><p>At once she began digging through the heap of jackets. “Thanks, Potter.”</p><p>“No problem.” What was she doing getting her jacket so early, anyway? Her mates were still around. “You, er, leaving so soon?”</p><p>He braced himself for her to answer in the affirmative.</p><p>Instead she said, “The point is to stay until midnight, isn’t it? No, I’m just — cold.”</p><p>That was a lie, and not even a good one. It was sweltering in the room, despite the open window. Lily, in all-black, had it worse off than anyone. Dimly, vaguely, James remembered that this sort of outfit was whatsit, beatnik. He’d watched all of <em> Funny Face </em> yesterday, and spoken to his mother.</p><p>But it could be a coincidence. Plenty of other girls could have seen <em> Funny Face. </em></p><p>Or it could be her.</p><p>Lily grew more and more distressed as her jacket didn’t turn up. James felt rather useless, just standing there and watching. So he said, “What colour is it?”</p><p>She looked up. “What?”</p><p>“Your jacket, what colour is it?”</p><p>“Oh...yellow.”</p><p>He set to searching. Between the two of them the pile was now a great big mess, which didn’t make sorting through it any easier. But at last James fished out a yellow jacket that looked like it could pass for Jo’s beige coat from <em> Funny Face. </em> </p><p>“Be careful!” Lily protested, grabbing it and putting it on.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” said James, unable to hold it in.</p><p>She was rooting through its pockets, looking still more horrified. </p><p>He frowned. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Abruptly she knelt to search the floor around the sofa, ignoring his question. He wasn’t sure if he should stay or go — should he help, maybe? But Lily sat up just then, her face screwed up like she was trying not to cry.</p><p>“Are you...all right?” said James, feeling foolish and inadequate and a little frightened all at once.</p><p>“Fine,” said Lily. “I’m <em> fine. </em> I just had to meet—” </p><p>Meet <em> whom? </em> It was her. It had to be. James opened his mouth to say something, anything, the first thing that came to mind. After all, if it wasn’t her, she would immediately be confused by the question.</p><p>But before he could speak one of her friends whisked her off. James snapped his mouth shut. He had to follow. He had to find her.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Truth or dare?” said Maggie Franklin, smirking.</p><p>“Spin the bottle,” said James. Fucking impulse control.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Ben <em> Thomasin? </em> Really? He hated Ben Thomasin. James bumped none too subtly into the island. It made no difference.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em> “Dear Notebook Boy,” </em> Mulciber said, and James stiffened. <em> “Sometimes I feel so alone, staring up at the stars and thinking how small and insignificant we are. But then I remember that we’ve become friends in such a short time—” </em></p><p>He hadn’t read that message, he was sure of it. So it was new. Mulciber had addressed her by name — had she signed it? </p><p>So it was her. It was <em> her. </em></p><p>“Shut up,” Lily said. She didn’t look upset, as she had when she’d been searching for her jacket. She looked red and angry, like a warning sign.  </p><p>Mulciber didn’t notice. <em> “—can we promise to be friends—” </em></p><p>“How does Notebook Boy feel about you snogging half the room, yeah?” Avery taunted.</p><p>She stomped up to them; James almost thought she might bowl them over. Instead she stopped and said, “That’s <em> my </em> notebook, and I want it back.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah? And what’re you gonna do?” spat Mulciber.</p><p>“I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to give it back to me.”</p><p>James caught sight of the way she was flexing her fingers. Oh, no.</p><p>“Oooh,” said Avery, “we’re not scared of <em> you!” </em></p><p>“One,” said Lily.</p><p>James ducked around the table and planted himself beside her. “Don’t be stupid. Just give it back. You’ve had your fun.” If it weren’t her, he might have encouraged a fight. Mulciber deserved a fist to the face. But she could get hurt. And it would sort of be <em> his </em> fault.</p><p>“Stay out of this, Potter. <em> Two.” </em></p><p>“Yeah, stay out of this,” Mulciber said. “I want to see what Evans is going to try.”</p><p>If only they knew. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” James muttered. If she really did hit Mulciber, he could separate them before it got serious. At least, that seemed better than punching Mulciber himself, and ticking her right off.</p><p>“Three.” She punched him.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“And all over this stupid thing.” Lily glared at the notebook in her lap.</p><p>James fought to keep a straight face, though something in him wilted. He needed to tell her, <em> now. </em> “Serious enough to get into a fight over.”</p><p>“Stupid,” she said again. “I should never have brought it, and I should never have written in it in the first place.”</p><p>“Oh. Right.” </p><p>That was all James could manage to say. Of all the scenarios he’d considered, he hadn’t thought she would regret the whole thing. Then again, he hadn’t imagined the fiasco with Avery and Mulciber either.</p><p>She held out her hand all of a sudden. James blinked at it. Had she figured it out too? Was this some kind of olive branch?</p><p>“Help me up, then,” she said.</p><p>“Oh. Right.”</p><p>And then she was marching towards the fountain. James didn’t think — he ran after her. “Are you sure you want to—”</p><p>She dropped it in the fountain.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 23, 2013</h4><p>James hadn’t told any of his mates at school that he’d be leaving. They were nice enough, the footballer boys (even the ones who were not Chelsea fans) and the neighbourhood girls. But he’d only known them all a few months. They weren’t like Sirius, whom he’d met at some ridiculous fancy party ages ago and could not be parted from since.</p><p>And that was fine.</p><p>But that day, skiving off class, James was feeling rather kindly towards this school. He sauntered into the library, home to one of his archnemeses — that <em> Pince. </em> She glared at him. He slouched through the shelves.</p><p>There was a red notebook on a desk. Obviously someone had forgotten it. James wondered if anyone would come back for it before the end of the school day. He opened it, searching for a name, but there was none.</p><p>He drummed his fingers on the cover. An idea began to take shape. </p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2013</h4><p>“Nice shoes,” said Lily.</p><p>James looked down at his feet, the one compromise he’d made to the Elvis ensemble. But he supposed he wasn’t Fred Astaire, not in this story.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said.</p><p>“See you after break,” Lily said, and jogged off to the car.</p><p>That was the last time he saw her.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 29, 2019</h4><p>James is distinctly, horribly, painfully aware of the shockingly gorgeous woman beside him. She’s just <em> there. </em> Close enough to touch, should he want to.</p><p>He does want to, but he’s not about to prod a stranger at a pub. No, what he’ll have to do is say something really clever to get her interest. This one sentence can make or break her opinion of him.</p><p>She’s looking at him. He can see it out of the corner of his eye. How is someone who looks like <em> that </em> just looking at <em> him? </em> She looks away, and James takes the opportunity to turn towards her. </p><p>The light catches her collarbones. The straps of her dress are tantalisingly flimsy. James wants to slowly push them down the smooth slope of her shoulders. She catches his gaze and he smiles.</p><p>Here it is. His chance to say something mindblowingly smart.</p><p>“You know what this bloke gets wrong about this song?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“James,” she says slowly, like his name’s a secret. “I think I’m safe tonight.”</p><p>Yeah, he fucking isn’t.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Did you two plan this?” James says the moment the girls are gone.</p><p>“Mate, I fucking wish,” Sirius says gleefully. “The look on your <em> faces. </em> We should’ve come here a long, long time ago.”</p><p>James looks to Remus. Remus shakes his head.</p><p>“It was really just coincidence,” he says.</p><p>Crazy fucking odds. He turns back to the stage, where Dorcas and Mary and Lily are talking to Nicole, who’s apparently in charge of karaoke here.</p><p>“Stop staring at her,” says Sirius.</p><p>“What? I’m not staring.”</p><p>“You are, a bit,” says Remus.</p><p>“This was your idea,” James grumbles. “Not mine. No part of this was <em> my </em> idea.”</p><p>“You were the one who said you’d come. To stick it to us, or whatever,” says Sirius.</p><p>“Not saying I told you so, but…” Remus trails off, shrugging again.</p><p>“I’ll bet you’re both <em> thrilled.” </em></p><p>“Just about.”</p><p>“I’m enjoying it, yeah.”</p><p>James groans. “Have a little fucking sympathy. Imagine the girl <em> you </em> fancied in school became — became — <em> her!” </em></p><p>“Lucky you, you get to try out option two,” says Sirius, “get it out of your sys—”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>“All I’m saying is, you obviously hit it off. See what happens.”</p><p>“I can’t not tell her,” James says. He ought to have told her before she left, all those years ago. Fuck, he ought to have punched Mulciber and told the whole room it was him. “It’s not fair to her to not say anything— I’m getting so far ahead of myself here. Who says anything will even happen?”</p><p>“Who says, indeed?” Remus mutters.</p><p>“They’re talking about you,” says Sirius.</p><p>“What?” James yelps. “No, they’re not. What’re they saying?”</p><p>“How the fuck should <em> I </em> know?”</p><p>“How’re you so sure they’re talking about me?”</p><p>“Look, they’ve just asked Nicole if you’re looking at her.”</p><p><em> “What?!” </em> James pauses. “I want to be looking, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sirius and Remus say at once.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lily tosses her hair; James watches the coppery strands trail across her skin, mesmerised. “I want you to kiss me. I’ve wanted you to kiss me all bloody night.”</p><p>He lets out a breath. So it’s not just him. Thank <em> fuck </em> it’s not just him. “God, me too. Me fucking— I mean, <em> I’ve </em> wanted to kiss <em> you </em> all night — and—” He cuts himself off. The definition of coming on too strong.</p><p>But she’s still staring right at him. “And?” </p><p>“And.” James has to drag his gaze away from her mouth.</p><p>She leans closer. “And what else?”</p><p>He doesn’t have to say it. They’re both thinking it.</p><p>“What else?” Lily says again.</p><p>He’s going to tell her right after this. Right now. No, he’s going to tell her right now.</p><p>A moment later, something slams into his nose.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Wincing a little, James refills his makeshift cold compress with ice from the freezer. He’s trying not to think about Lily undressing one room over. So he glances around the room, searching for a distraction.</p><p>He finds one — there’s a photo stuck to the fridge with a magnet. He laughs quietly: Year Ten play, <em> Twelfth Night. </em> He remembers, because boarding school did not do annual plays. </p><p>Lily is noticeable at once, laughing to herself, her red hair coiled up in something that passed for a Renaissance do. No, not laughing to herself. He’s right next to her. What had he said to make her laugh? He can’t remember at all.</p><p>As much as he’s been trying not to think about it, James recalls Claire Welles’s party, and the entry that Mulciber read aloud. James hadn’t read the rest of it. Whatever her final message to him was, he has no clue.</p><p>There’s a pen attached to a shopping list, clipped to the front of the fridge. He turns the photo over and begins to write.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I think you should leave,” she says quietly.</p><p>He takes a breath, trying to settle the anger and confusion roiling within his gut. “Yeah. I should.” Before he’s out of her bedroom, he adds, “You <em> are </em> different. Talking to strangers about <em> Love island </em> isn’t the same as letting people in.”</p><p>He shouldn’t have said it. But it’s out. What’s done is done, and this is most certainly <em> done. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><h4>DECEMBER 31, 2019</h4><p>“Who the hell are you texting?” James complains. </p><p>They’re at the bar, which is where they’ve been parked pretty much all evening. He’s got no desire to pal around with fucking <em> Trevor; </em> he’s only here because Sirius insisted, maybe in an attempt to get him a rebound, or something.</p><p>It was a bad idea. It continues to be a bad idea. James just wants to go home and watch <em> Austin Powers. </em> And now Sirius is <em> texting. </em></p><p>“Literally everyone in my phone,” says Sirius, “because you’re being a bore.”</p><p>James huffs. “You knew I would be. It’s your fault for making me go out.”</p><p>“Yeah, I should’ve brought Remus instead.”</p><p>“You should’ve just <em> texted </em> Georgiana if you want to meet her,” James says mulishly.</p><p>“She’s at a different party.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ. Then why are we <em> here?” </em></p><p>“Free drinks.” Sirius gestures at the bartender.</p><p>Well, fair enough. “Only until midnight,” James says, “then I’m going the fuck home.” At least he and Sirius cleaned up the house after the other night. He can wallow in peace. And confusion, of course, and frustration, but also in peace.</p><p>Whatever. He just wants to not think about her for about five minutes. James drains his glass.</p><p> </p><hr/><h4>JANUARY 1, 2020</h4><p>It’s brutal trying to get an Uber. In the end James flags down a regular taxi, possibly the last taxi on earth. He’s more than a little drunk. It’s time to clamber into bed and briefly leave the land of the living.</p><p>But when he slides into the taxi — which he could’ve <em> sworn </em> was empty, why else would the cabbie stop? — someone’s already in it. Red hair, green dress, green eyes fixed upon him.</p><p>“Blackfriars, please,” she tells the cabbie. Then Lily looks at him. “Hi.”</p><p>Hi? <em> Hi? </em> Fucking <em> hi? </em></p><p>“This is my cab,” he says stiffly. “And we’re not going to Blackfriars — it’s the middle of the fucking night, d’you want to freeze to death?”</p><p>She waves this away. “Where we go doesn’t matter. Just — please just listen to me.”</p><p>OK, this is exactly what some part of him hoped would happen. But… <em> but. </em> He reminds himself that he doesn’t actually owe her anything. Because she’s right, isn’t she? They don’t know each other. She doesn’t have to care about him. He doesn’t have to care about her. He doesn’t have to fall so hard so quickly. End of bloody story. </p><p>“Well, you’ve gone and hijacked my taxi, so I’ve got no choice, have I?”</p><p>“You were leaving,” Lily protests, “and then if I followed you home and shouted through your window you’d call the police and tell them a madwoman was shouting at you through your window!”</p><p>He laughs humourlessly. “And I’d be right.”</p><p>“Just answer me this.” She shifts around so she’s facing him properly. “The other night, when I asked if you think of us as a what-if—” James winces. “No, just <em> listen. </em> When I asked, you didn’t answer. Do you?”</p><p>He stares at her, incredulous. “Really? After everything else I said, <em> that’s </em> the thing that’s still in doubt for you?”</p><p>She shakes her head, impatient. “Would you just answer?”</p><p>His exhale is sharp, quick. He doesn’t have to tell her. But he’s got nothing to lose, has he?</p><p>“Of course I do,” James says roughly.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. New Year's Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>That's how she knows it's over.</p><p><b>music</b>: fool's holiday (all time low), long story short (taylor swift), chemicals react remix (aly &amp; aj), the end of all things (panic! at the disco), new year's day (taylor swift), you and i (lady gaga)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>JANUARY 1, 2020</h4><p>“Of course I do,” James says. He’s avoiding her gaze, but Lily <em> feels </em> those words like he’s looking right at her.</p><p>She sits back, letting out a shaky breath. “I asked because...well, because that’s how I’ve always felt. But I was too afraid to say it. To really <em> think </em> it, even.”</p><p>“Congrats,” he says. “S’a bit late.”</p><p>The bitterness in his voice makes her want to stop in her tracks, dive right out of the moving car. But she forces herself to go on. After all, she’s here now. What does she have to lose?</p><p>“No, it isn’t. Even you don’t think that.” Lily moves to take his hand without thinking, then reconsiders.</p><p>He looks up at her, eyes narrowed. “And how would you know what I think?”</p><p>“Because I know you!” she cries. In the quiet moment that follows, she takes a breath and lowers her voice.  “I knew you, I know you. And I’ve been so — bloody — stupid, trying to pretend I don’t.”</p><p>James sighs. “Lily, I don’t know what you want me to say.”</p><p>“That’s— That’s fair. Nothing. You don’t have to say anything.” She’s getting a little frenzied, thanks to the wine and the nervous energy. “Because you’re really rather well-adjusted, and I’m just finding out that I might not be, and we’ve all got hangups and I reckon mine is that I don’t like letting people in, and you were right about that—” </p><p>He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “I shouldn’t have — it wasn’t right, because I <em> don’t </em> know you—”</p><p>“But you weren’t <em> wrong.” </em> Lily stops, exhales. “I don’t like letting people in. But — I did it with you. And it’s mad, you have to see how mad it is! Because here you are, and you look like <em> this, </em> and you have all these ridiculous memories of me from six years ago—”</p><p>“You’re serious?” James sits up now, at last looking something other than defensive. <em> “I </em> look like this? Fuck, look at you!”</p><p>She flushes, shakes her head to clear it. “Regardless, I — I’m just coming to terms with the fact that I met a guy at a pub, and some part of me has already loved some part of him.” </p><p>She’s not sure she meant to say that. <em> Love. </em> That’s a word she’s never said to anyone in this capacity. But it’s out, and James looks like she’s shot him. </p><p>Lily falls silent. That’s not good. That expression, this quiet, following that confession — that’s not good at all. She’s too stunned to cry.</p><p>“James?” she prompts.</p><p>He leans towards the cabbie in the driver’s seat, and rattles off Lily’s address. “Can you take us there first?”</p><p>And that’s how she knows it’s over.</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>DECEMBER 29, 2013</h4><p>
  <em> Dear Diary, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is it odd that I think I like him? I don’t have to say who he is. Or, I won’t, just in case Petunia’s reading this. Petunia, if you’re reading this, stop right now! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There. Anyway, I think I fancy him. Which is a bit ridiculous, since I don’t know what he looks like, and it feels silly even to write it down. But I’d have to be wilfully blind to ignore this feeling. Feelings, plural?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mostly I think I am hopeful. Mum and Dad have always said I don’t have time for boyfriends (true) and I’ve never really fancied someone at school. They all have known me for ages, or they think they have. No one wants to listen to me, really, really listen to me, and get to know me. I’m not complaining, though. I reckon that’s what it’s like for anyone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What I am saying is, he does, though. And it’s a really lovely feeling. I want to hold onto it for as long as I can. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/>

<h4>JANUARY 1, 2020</h4><p>The taxi stops outside her building. Lily is jolted into motion.</p><p>“I — should pay for this,” she says, rummaging through her purse. Of course, there’s no money to be found there. She gave it all to Shelby. </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” James says wearily. “Just...have a good night.”</p><p>“Alright.” </p><p>She looks up at him, trying to memorise what he looks like. Is this what it was like, for him? Watching her walk away? But she’s said everything she could possibly say. If it’s not enough...then it just isn’t. Lily presses her lips together and pulls the card out of her purse.</p><p>“I still have this,” she says, and he frowns at the birthday squirrel for a moment before recognition takes hold. </p><p>James makes as if to reach for it. Lily pulls back.</p><p>“I’m not trying to give it back to you,” she says. “You gave it to me, and I don’t want to forget that.” She stuffs it back in her purse and opens the car door. “I just wanted you to know.”</p><p>Then she’s out in the cold, shivering in the very inadequate coat she has on. She can go back inside — but she doesn’t want to. Shouts and cheers still fill the air, New Year’s revelers going strong. Maybe she’ll just walk for a bit. She ducks her head and picks a direction. She can hear the car driving away.</p><p>He’s beside her before she’s even had a chance to start crying, one hand on her arm. He drops it once she’s turned round to face him, stunned and wobbling.</p><p>“What—” she starts to say.</p><p>“I loved you too,” he says quickly. “I didn’t want to go without — without telling you.”</p><p>“Oh,” Lily says, her voice very small.</p><p>“Lily, what do you want?” James takes a step closer to her. “What do you want <em> now?” </em></p><p>She swallows. “You. You, again.”</p><p>She thought it would be difficult to say, but it isn’t. It’s shockingly easy. He sucks in a breath, looks away.</p><p>“To get to know you,” Lily amends. “If you’ll have me.”</p><p>He meets her gaze again. “I’d like that,” he says slowly, and he pulls her close. “I’d like that.”</p><p>She rests her cheek again his chest, letting out a long exhale. The whirlwind her mind has been comes to a halt. The quiet is soft and lovely, like fresh snow. </p><p>“It’s cold,” he says. “Let’s go inside.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lily pushes open the door to the flat. The sitting room is in disarray, just as she left it — her old blue diary sitting on the coffee table, her blanket draped over the armchair, the half-full bottle of wine on the floor beside it. She sighs, moves to fold the blanket.</p><p>James follows, picking up the wine bottle. “I’ll put this inside, shall I?”</p><p>“No, don’t bother—”</p><p>“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”</p><p>He disappears in the direction of the kitchen. Lily puts the folded blanket on the sofa, shuts her diary. She drifts towards the balcony doors, unlatching them and stepping out into the night air again. </p><p>The stars are bright, even as clouds begin to gather across the tapestry of the sky. She braces an elbow against the railing and watches them in silence.</p><p>“I thought the point was to stay warm.”</p><p>She glances over her shoulder. James stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He still has his coat on. Her heart stutters.</p><p>“Just looking,” she tells him.</p><p>“Yeah, I can see that.” He holds out a hand. “Happy New Year.”</p><p>She takes it, lets him pull her through into the warmth again. Lily realises his coat is on, but his shoes are off. She latches the balcony shut again. </p><p>She’s not sure if the silence between them is comfortable or not. Maybe she’s the one who’s discomfited, raw from showing more of herself than she normally would. What do two people who used to love each other say to one another? It’s not as though there was any falling-out. Just severance, sudden and abrupt.</p><p>James’s small smile blossoms into a full grin.</p><p>“What?” Lily whispers.</p><p>“Nice dress,” he whispers back, his hands landing on her hips. </p><p>She laughs, and it’s swallowed up by his kiss. They’re drifting towards her bedroom, not in any hurry. As they move he’s steadily rucking up the fabric of her skirt, until it’s bunched up around her hips and his hands are warm on her skin.</p><p>Lily fumbles for the doorknob, parting from him to lean back against her bedroom door. “Tell me we’re not going to start something with no follow-through,” she warns, only half-joking.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” he says, his fingers teasing between her thighs, “I intend to finish what I start.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for following along, everyone! happy, happy new year to you and yours &lt;3 here's hoping for a better one</p><p>xoxo quibblah</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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